


The Weeping Siren

by GalaxyThreads



Series: She's A Terror, We're The Victims [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Brother-Sister Relationships, Bullying, Canon Divergence - Pre-Thor (2011), Captivity, Comfort, Drugs, Everyone Needs A Hug, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Horror, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kidnapping, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Minor Injuries, Mystery, NOT gore, Poison, Pre-Thor (2011), Protectiveness, Scary, Sick Loki (Marvel), Sickness, Sif is a good bro, Starvation, Supernatural Elements, The warriors three and Sif are jerks but they're learning to be better, The warriors three are a good bro, Understanding, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-06-29 22:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 90,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads
Summary: When Vanaheim requests aid dealing with a creature dubbed the Weeping Siren, Sif had never Loki capable of doing something so recklessly selfless. Then again, this whole fiasco has made her acutely aware of something: she, and the Warriors Three never really knew Loki. (AKA the Warriors Three and Sif realize they were wrong about Loki) (No slash, no smut) Pre-Thor





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: I absolutely ADORE not gory horror. Like the supernatural elements and the jump scares and-ah, yes. The mystery and all of that is a favorite of mine, and after being crushed by Endgame and coming to the realization that I just don't care about some elements of the MCU, I'm gonna try my hand at horror/mystery. We'll see how this go. Pre-Thor all the way, man, 'cause watching a young Loki and Thor run around being ignorant of how awful their future is so much fun. :D
> 
> And, additionally, I really wanted to write something that would force Sif and the Warriors Three to get to see Loki. Not just Prince Loki, but Loki-Loki.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for taking a look at this! Hopefully it's enjoyable! ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing!
> 
> Rated for: Some supernatural elements, injury, mentions of Odin's A+ (sarcastic) parenting, bullying, some disturbing imagery, and paranoia on my part. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest. Language is all K.
> 
> Pairings: None.  
> Basic-ish age frame: Volstagg: 20; Hogun and Thor: 19; Sif and Fandral: 18; Loki: 16
> 
> For your information, this story is cross-posted on Fanfiction.Net under the pen name "LodestarJumper"
> 
> Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)
> 
> Note: Sif and Warriors Three are not going to be the most pleasant people at the beginning of this in their regards to how they treat Loki. Bare with me. ;)

* * *

_"You see, you just don't observe."_

_-_ Sherlock Holmes

* * *

"Fandral, _Fandral_ —give it back you _nithing!"_ Loki's voice pierces through the otherwise quiet stable and Sif has to withhold a deep sigh of annoyance. She can't quite stop her eyes before they roll up to the wood ceiling, though. Must Loki always make _such_ a show? It's simply teasing, as it has _always_ been, but Loki's shrill voice makes it seem like Fandral has just kicked his favorite pet in the shins.

Fandral lets out a loud laugh and ducks past her, dirty blond hair flying in front of his eyes for a brief moment. Sif looks up from smoothing out the tangles in her mare's hair to see Loki stalking up towards them, thin face etched in a scowl. Dressed in his dark colors, he looks every inch a murderous viper. Sif is struck, once again, with disbelief that Loki and Thor are related. Thor is ever a golden light, where Loki carries shadows with him like it is his life's duty.

"What do you _have_ in here that's so private, then?" Fandral asks, and Sif's head tilts towards the warrior as Loki's eyes widen with what looks like brief panic. In one hand, Fandral has a satchel of some sort that's been flipped open and he's rifling through it. Sif feels brief annoyance flicker through her at the sight. Digging through someone's travel bags is _still_ a violation of privacy, even if it _is_ Loki.

She sighs, "Fandral—"

Loki makes a lunge for the satchel, but Fandral pulls it back, and laughs harder when Loki nearly tumbles to his knees, barely managing to catch himself in time. Sif reaches out and snatches the heavy satchel from Fandral, who looks up at her with a wounded expression. "Oh, don't start that," she says sharply, "you _know_ better than this."

They're of age now. Such childish pranks should have been left behind them a long time ago. They haven't been, and she doubts they ever will be.

Fandral scoffs, " _I_ know better?"

Loki scrambles up to his feet and tears the bag from her grip without a word of thanks, holding it close to his chest, and then turns a piercing glare to the warrior beside her. "For your information, there is _nothing_ in here—"

"But your diary?" Fandral quips, "Your confession of love to Sif? Oh! A list of potential suitors? Ha! Who would want to court _you,"_ the warrior sneers, then, in a high-pitched voice mocks, "I know who's at the top of the list! It is I, High Princess Sigyn of Alfheim, because I have a deep, untold love for the Snake Prince of Asgard, despite the blood he got on my clothing—"

Sif smacks his arm, trying to bury a laugh, " _Fandral."_

The swordsman stops, but a smirk is etched onto his features and he shoots her a knowing glance. _Everyone_ knows that whatever blossoming romance between Loki and Princess Sigyn that _had_ started when Alfheim came for its last peace treaty nearly a decade ago was squished when Loki smashed his fist into the High Princess's face for still undetermined reasons. Princess Sigyn, unlike the legendary patience she's famed for, had retaliated by tackling Loki to the floor. It was a moment that Asgard's courts have not shut up about since the whole affair began, and Sif would be lying to admit she doesn't find the whole event nothing short of hilarious.

Loki is hopeless, even at romance.

She has to lift a hand to her face to block a snort of laughter from escaping her as Fandral makes a little high pitched giggle. "She was _swooning_ at you, wasn't she?" Fandral asks, and Sif's chest compresses in her effort to withhold a laugh.

Loki looks close to smashing the bag over Fandral's head. His gloved fingers are tight around the satchel, but his expression reveals nothing of what he's thinking, as usual. "It's a _map,_ you dolt, of Vanaheim's forests from my father. He let me borrow it."

_Did he?_

"A _map?"_ Sif questions, brow lifted. The way he leapt after it wouldn't give that indication. A map seems hopelessly useless in comparison to anything else, even if it _is_ one of the few scarce sources for Vanaheim's greenwood in existence. Sif would be lying to say she's not grudgingly impressed that Loki _got_ one, but she's not going to admit that to him.

" _Yes."_ Loki says impatiently, looking down into the satchel as if making sure something is still there. "I'm under strict instructions not to let any damage come to it."

Fandral gives a coy grin, "Because your father is well aware that you break everything you borrow? I'm amazed the Palace Archives haven't toss you out on your rump."

Loki's stare grows cold. "I do _not_ break everything—"

"And tell me," Fandral interrupts, seeming bored, "how is it that a _map_ is going to catch Vanaheim's beast for us? We'll put you in front so you can discuss over its facts and _woo_ the creature into a trap? _Bore_ it to death with your seemingly _endless_ pits of knowledge, eh?"

Loki's face heats, and he snaps the cover of the satchel over the bag. "There are _three_ maps of Blodig Skog in existence. Being able to get out once we've caught the beast _is_ something you want, isn't it?"

"Surely it can't be _that_ hard to leave a trail to follow," Sif remarks, settling a hand on her horse as the mare shifts uneasily. She's been hunting before, she _knows_ that the woods can be daunting, but not nearly to the extent that Loki is insisting. He himself should know this, given that Thor—unfortunately—drags him along on almost everything they do.

Loki stares at her for a long second with what's clearly disbelief before he shakes his head a little, "Vanaheim's forests are cursed with heavy, overlaying magic. My father _explained_ this before we left, weren't you paying attention? Heimdall's gaze cannot reach us in the Blodig Skog, and the forest is cursed. With your simple understanding of sedir, you wouldn't understand the significance of that. The only way to get out once you've gone in deep enough—"

"—is to use a map, yes, _we know,"_ Fandral waves a hand, "we're not complete idiots. I just think it pointless that you _brought_ Asgard's only copy when Vanaheim has the other two. Prince Tjan has plans to use one from what I've heard."

Sif runs a hand through her mare's, Restless, mane, trying to quell the sudden rush of twisting anxiety and excitement as it pours through her. It's been several months since the last time she went hunting with Thor and the others, and a few years since something of this significance has popped up. Vanaheim's request wasn't expected, even though they _had_ heard tales of the dubbed Weeping Siren, no one had anticipated the mercy mission Prince Tjan was sent on to request their aid in hunting and killing it.

Sif is excited, not just for the thrill of accomplishing something this difficult, but also to help where she can. The territory that the Weeping Siren seems to play with the most has been terrorized for nearly five years now, with recent attacks getting worse and more damaging. The last one left ten dead and Hogun's younger sister missing from Prince Tjan's report. She'll get to help these people, _and_ vanquish another bit of corruption from the Nine.

Just as a Valkyrie would have done.

"Yes, well," Loki seems oddly hesitant. "I'd rather be prepared in case Prince Tjan goes running off and leaves us there."

Fandral smirks, tipping his head, "Don't trust your dear cousin, do we?"

Loki scowls at him, "Prince Tjan is—"

"You're scared of the woods." Sif realizes, interrupting him. At the slight tightening of Loki's fingers around the satchel, she can't withhold a huff of laughter. "Blodig Skog's enchantments are spread _canards,_ Loki, surely you can't—"

"If that's so, then why has Prince Tjan lost over thirty men?" Loki's chin lifts. "The Vanir's elite, and yet Prince Tjan turned to Asgard for help because he fears them. I'm not _afraid,_ I'm just not _stupid._ "

"Oh, I'd be more worried about the Weeping Siren," Fandral says and raises his hands to wiggle his fingers. "Don't go running after anything crying in the dark tonight, eh?"

Sif snickers, nudging the warrior in the side, "Don't be stupid, Fandral, that's the _woods_ trying to scare us off, isn't it Loki?"

Fandral laughs out loud. "Of course. My mistake. Fear the great Blodig Skog—the woods that will drive any creature mad."

Loki's jaw sets.

Irritation crosses through her, and she has to ground her feet to stop herself from moving forward. All mirth has fallen from her expression, and she shakes her head. " _You're_ paranoid. Prince Tjan didn't drag us to Vanaheim to drop the Allfather's _sons_ in the Blodig Skog as _bait."_

"I'm not so sure," Loki murmurs, "you saw how sick he looked. He's not thinking straight. Hunting this creature has not done pleasant things to his mind."

"You'd know, eh? Chasing after madness like it's a sport?" Fandral questions pointedly. Restless shifts uneasily at the words, and Sif strokes a hand through her horses hair to soothe her.

There's no change in the Snake Prince's expression save a slight tightening of his eyes, but his voice is ice: " _Shut up."_

He turns sharply on his heel and begins to stalk off towards where Moa, his mare, is waiting for him to finish removing her tack and snatches at her reigns. He looks intent on completing his task outside of the stables, and Sif barely resists the urge to roll her eyes at his childishness.

They're just _joking._ Doesn't he have a sense of humor that _doesn't_ involve dumping a gallon of cold water over someone's head to wake them up in the morning? Or turn wine into snakes and laugh at the outcry from the table? Gah, he drives her _mad._ Privately, she'd been hoping that Queen Frigga wouldn't let her youngest go on this hunt given the whispered dangers around it. Loki is barely of age now, getting him killed or captured by the whispered creature of Vanaheim's forests is something Sif thought a mother would actively try to avoid.

Unfortunately, the queen is on an errand to Muspelheim to talk with the thinning population there about resources, and she won't be back to Asgard for several days. They left this morning, which is _long_ before she could interfere, or insist she come herself.

"This is why we let Thor do the planning!" Fandral calls at Loki's back, "He doesn't include _maps_ as an integral part!"

Moa huffs, and she gives Fandral something that looks close to a stink eye before disappearing from view behind her master. They've no sooner vanished than Sif releases a few open laughs, turning to look at the swordsmen, shaking her head. "Must you antagonize him like that?"

Fandral pokes her upper arm, " _You're_ one to talk, you laughing cheat!"

Sif attempts to swallow her mirth, " _Now_ is not the time to get him riled up. You know he's so much worse to deal with when he's upset."

"Is he ever _not,_ then?" Fandral questions pointedly. Sif barely bites back a breath of frustration in agreement. She doesn't know how far Loki went to finish taking the tack off of Moa—she thinks as far as would be acceptable, but she never _can_ tell with the eavesdropping skank—and she doesn't want to further rile him. He's always so irritable and nit-picky these days, and she's rather be on Thor's good graces when they start hunting this thing.

It's rare that their teasing will antagonize Loki enough that he'll whine to Thor like a weepy child, but it _has_ happened before, and Thor will often give them the cold shoulder for a few hours, then ask what happened. He doesn't remain on Loki's side after hearing that their intent to reach out to his sibling failed, yet _again,_ and will encourage them to keep trying.

For what _point_ she doesn't know. She's rather be acquaintances with a dragr than Thor's younger brother.

He is, by all intents and purposes, a spoiled, bratty, royal pain in the rump.

She has never liked him, and that isn't going to change because Thor pats her on the shoulder with encouragement. Nor is it going to change as Loki continuously keeps looking down on them like they're lesser than the dirt his feet dread on.

"No," Sif says to Fandral's statement, and shakes her head again. "But there's no need to make it _worse."_

"I don't even _try,"_ Fandral promises, "he is just incapable of anything _normal,_ isn't he?"

Sif wants to disagree simply because that's _awful_ to say, but she can't. Besides, it would be mean to someone else, not _Loki._ Loki is abnormal, and if everyone on Asgard doesn't know that by now, nothing else will teach them.

"Augh," she breathes out, and kicks his left boot with the side of her right.

"Oi!"

"Are you going to dither here whining to me, or finish unpacking so we can meet Thor and the others at the inn? I'm exhausted and would like to go, so _hurry up!_ " She demands, placing her hands on her hips. Fandral makes a face at her before moving away to his horse's stall and slipping inside.

"I'm _already_ prepared, love," he counters, "I've been ready since before Thor left with the prince."

Sif raises a brow.

Fandral sighs and rolls his eyes, " _Alright,_ so I've been ready for about twenty minutes. I didn't see _you_ hurrying about to finish."

"Prince Tjan wanted to meet in the inn at sundown." She counters, "I didn't exactly need to rush. Even if we leave now, we'll still have plenty of time to meet him and the rest of his hunting camarilla."

"Fearing a putsch, are we?" Fandral questions halfheartedly as he begins to braid a few loose strands from his stallion, Atmis.

Sif rolls her eyes. " _No._ I wasn't _implying_ that I thought that someone was going to overthrow the stupid government. I _meant_ that I don't want to go hunting with Prince Tjan's guard. They're only going to get in the way of our success. We won't be nearly as fast or effective that way. Loki does make a point—they've lost nearly thirty men to those woods, surely the _elite_ would know what they're doing. Why did Vanaheim even reach out to us if they're going to stick a leash on us?"

Fandral shrugs, swinging a bag over his shoulder.

"Because my native realm isn't stupid or arrogant enough to assume that a creature who has led more than eighteen adolescents including my _sister_ into the dark is not simply a man who can be arrested."

Sif whirls, facing the back entrance of the stable with surprise and feels a flush heat her face. "Hogun!" she cries on seeing him, and clenches her fists. Norns, she never would have _admitted_ that to Fandral knowing that the Vanir warrior was behind her. Even though Hogun has been living on Asgard for centuries, he is still hopelessly patriotic to this realm.

Sometimes it bothers her.

There is nothing _wrong_ with Asgard, and she doesn't understand why he seems hesitant to give his full support to her countrymen. Hogun is fiercely loyal to Thor, herself, Fandral, and Volstagg, but not...not _really_ Asgard. He is never afraid to speak up in defense of Vanaheim, but hardly seems to care for the Golden Realm.

She _knows_ that it isn't the case, but sometimes she can't _help_ but wonder.

"I didn't mean—" Sif starts to sputter, but Hogun waves a hand to silence her, taking a step further into the stables. He doesn't seem unsettled or offended by her blatant slander.

"I know, Sif," Hogun promises, "but it would be well with you to keep such thoughts to yourself now that we are on Vanaheim."

As if she _wasn't._

Sif snaps her jaw shut, clenching her fist around her mare's mane. Restless tilts her deep brown eyes towards her, and Sif gives a weak grimace in response to the horse's quiet question. It saddens her to know that on some realms, like Midgard, these creatures have lost the intelligence they once carried by being treated so long as dumb animals. She knows that Restless understands her, and that she is in tune with Sif in a way a foolish creature couldn't be.

Fandral tilts back against the post beside Atmis's stall. "This isn't our first visit to Vanaheim, dearest Hogun. You hardly need to fear that the peace instilled by our lovely Royal Head's marriage over a millennia ago is going to snap because we'll say something out of line."

Hogun frowns.

Sif sighs.

"It's just a hunting trip," Fandral assures, "nothing is going to go wrong."

"We do not usually track creatures spat back up from Helheim itself," Hogun's voice is still level, but it's dangerous. "Don't tread on this lightly."

"I'm _not."_ Fandral shoots down quickly, "I just don't see a point wandering around like we're walking to our execution. We've dealt with sirens before. How bad can the Weeping Siren really be? It'll sing _and_ cry at us at the same time? The horror."

Sif huffs, swinging her satchel over her shoulder and grabbing at her sleeping pack. She rests a hand on Restless's muzzle for a moment, turning to the two men before they can _really_ get going in an argument. It won't be very vocal, given that bickering with Hogun mostly means fighting with his eyebrows, but it _will_ be distracting. "Alright, calm down. We should go find Volstagg and Thor before the sun sets." She reminds.

"Yes. I was sent to collect you," Hogun says tonelessly, turning on his heel to exit. Fandral makes a slight face, but follows after the Vanir once he's grabbed the rest of his equipment. After settling Restless into her stall and a quick word of goodbye, Sif follows the two from the inn's stable. Unlike most inn's on Asgard, there aren't any horse keepers. Sif finds that a little strange, but given the poverty of the town, it's to be expected.

Sif squints up at the pink sky, noting that the setting sun has nearly vanished into it.

Vanaheim looks much the same as she remembers it. Whereas Asgard is known for its cliffs, bountiful water sources, and overall rocky climate, Vanaheim is hills. The sloping edges of the grasslands and forests is a deep contrast to Asgard, but not without its own beauty. Thick, clouds overcast most of the pinkish sky, suggesting that it will rain soon. Winter is a foreign concept here, the warm temperatures leave most of the realm wet with only rain.

They have to enter the lopsided, wooden inn before she sees any of her other companions. The inn has a tavern on the ground floor, something that the citizens are heartily engaging themselves in. It's loud inside, and it takes her a moment to adjust to the sound. It smells faintly like thick dirt clouds, alcohol, and strong mead. There's more than a dozen tables set up, and almost all are filled.

Towards the far left, tucked in a corner, she spots the back of Thor's blond hair. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the dark heads of the Vanir. Light hair colors are typically only found on Asgard and Alfheim, so Sif can't count how many times she's been asked if she misses Vanaheim because those who don't know her assume she's Vanir.

No, and she wouldn't have to _deal_ with that confusion if Loki wasn't such a snob.

Sif, trailing behind Fandral and Hogun, reaches the large table without too much of a scuffle. Thor is seated on one side with Volstagg on his left. Loki is on his right, but Sif nearly misses him by how well he disappears into the shadows.

Prince Tjan is on the other half with, as expected, his ten member guard. His tanned, freckled skin is bruised in some places and she can see a thick bandage wrapped around his left forearm that's a lot dirtier than it was when he greeted them at the Bifrost site. The third Vanir prince is dressed in the standard light brown and deep red of the royal family here, but his black hair is tucked up into a messy ponytail. It's obvious that the strain of hunting the Weeping Siren has made him restless. Deep bruise-like bags hang under his eyes, and his face is flushed a little as if he's sick.

None in the rest of his group appear much healthier.

"—elusive, and it's moving now." Prince Tjan is explaining with his thick accent, "Before it would stick to the village near the outskirts of Blodig Skog, but the forest has apparently ceased to be good hunting ground. It's moving north, we know because it took a child last night."

Thor and Loki share a look, and Sif feels a sympathetic sigh slip from her lips. That's now the seventeenth since this whole thing started, isn't it? No one has found any bodies, nor any evidence as to where the children and adolescents are _going_ because of Blodig Skog's enchantments. From what she understands, they are to hunt the Weeping Siren, _and_ find evidence of the missing youth. If they're lucky, they'll be alive. Sif isn't too hopeful.

She wants to be, but she can't.

"Isn't there usually more time between the captures?" Loki questions, looking confused. "From what I'd heard, I thought it would wait weeks before claiming another. The last daughter that was captured...Askel? She was only six days ago."

"Aye." Prince Tjan agrees, and rubs at his forehead. "It has no pattern, but this is out of the ordinary. I don't want to imagine what it will do when it gets to a city. Hai-Han is only six miles north of here. The Weeping Siren _must_ be stopped in Ju."

"I agr—" Thor stops, looking up for a second and his eyebrows lift with surprise. "Hogun! You have returned."

Hogun nods, tipping his head. "My apologies. I did not want to interrupt."

Prince Tjan flicks his gaze towards them and as it settles, Sif feels unease slide down her spine. There's just...something so _off_ about his eyes, and she doesn't know what it is. Maybe Loki's superstitions weren't far off. When Prince Tjan came to Asgard yesterday, she didn't see him in the proceedings. Loki had.

But still. A _map._ So _pointless._

Prince Tjan nods once and then gestures for them to take the unoccupied chairs. "It is fine, Hogun. Please,"

Sif takes the seat, unfortunately, next to Loki with Fandral on her right. There's still two more empty chairs, but Sif doesn't know who they'd be for. King Odin only offered a hand in the aid of destroying the Weeping Siren because Hogun had plead when he'd learned of his sister's capture, and Thor refused to let him go alone. Thus had resulted in the rest of them tagging along.

If there's more coming, it isn't from her realm.

Prince Tjan waits until they're settled before saying, "As I was explaining to my cousins, the Weeping Siren took a child last eve. A son. We still don't know what it does with the children, but our priority is to find the missing eighteen. If we knew an age group or a pattern for the Siren's thirst, it would be easier to protect the villagers. Ju has not been its first victim, but it has been the most frequent. Thus far, six children have been taken from here. The other twelve were elsewhere."

"Six in a row would mean its been here for months, if not a year." Hogun points out. "My father was sent to deal with it before you, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Prince Tjan admits, "but it didn't go as planned. Governor Tusin was _told_ not to bring his family, but did anyway. Insubordination. Through his _stupidity_ he lost your sister." Hogun's eyebrow lifts dangerously, and Prince Tjan backtracks a little. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to defame, but I can't _believe_ he would disobey a direct order like that. Not with his position, _or_ his connection to my father."

A quick save, but apparently not fast enough because Sif can see the tenseness in Hogun's shoulders. He's not typically a man to react with violence, but in matters of family he would not be opposed. Fandral's hand subtly reaches out under the table to grab Hogun's arm before he can do something stupid.

Prince Tjan sighs deeply. "It _has_ been here for months, yes."

"And still you have no luck with catching it?" Sif questions, turning her attention back to the Vanir, "How hard can it _be_ to hunt? Surely a dumb creature—"

"This is _NO 'dumb creature'!"_ Prince Tjan's voice raises as his fist slams against the table, a wild look coming to his face. Sif's hand strays towards the dagger on her person and from the corner of her eye, she sees the other members of her party shift to their weapons. They aren't stupid. Royalty Prince Tjan may be, the madness in his eyes is not something to be ignored.

Captain Yan, beside the prince, grabs at his arm. "Sire," he murmurs in warning. "Guard yourself."

Prince Tjan takes in a ragged breath, settling himself back down. "Please accept my apology, it has been a long few months. People are not taking this seriously enough save those who live in it. I myself was ensared by such arrogance."

They _are_ taking this seriously. That's why they're _asking_ these questions. Sif probably could have been more gentle in her inquiry, she'll admit that, but for a creature that has caused so much terror since its arrival half a decade ago, she would _think_ they'd have better luck getting rid of it. Even lower ranking trainees in Asgard's army could have.

Sirens are rare, but they stick to _water_ and aren't that hard to kill. A simple beheading could do it. Shouldn't Prince Tjan just be looking for bodies of water in the Blodig Skog?

"I assure you, cousin, that we _will_ help you kill this beast." Thor promises, voice sincere, "But you must respect our disbelief that you still have no luck after five years."

" _I_ wasn't hunting it until four months ago," Prince Tjan corrects, then shakes his head. "But none of that matters. We are not here to argue. We are here to discuss our plan of attack. The Siren's ideal hunting ground is the night, it prefers to be swathed in shadows as it sings its haunted song. I have a map of Blodig Skog that we will be forced to reference for aid."

The Vanir prince lifts up a wad of paper before setting it down on the table. "We will not hunt the beast tonight. My men and myself are exhausted, and we need rest."

"But my sister—" Hogun starts in protest.

Prince Tjan shakes his head. "It won't matter, Hogun. Once the creature as claimed someone, we don't hear from them again. No notes, no encoded messages. We _will_ find your sister, but if we start tonight or on the morrow, it makes no difference."

She would daresay she disagrees, but Prince Tjan has more experience hunting this than she does.

Sif chews on the inside of her lip with sympathy. Her only sibling, Systra, moved to work in the palace when she was very young. She doesn't know the attachment to a sibling the way that Hogun does. Her sister has felt more like a stranger than anything else, even after Sif joined the Einherjar. They don't talk. She _would_ be concerned if Systra was the Siren's victim, but Hogun seems to be doing his best not to openly panic.

Prince Tjan smooths the map down across the table, and Sif notes with some interest that it is _clearly_ enchanted. The trails that have been forged are there, but it's not the whole forest. Its captured only what Prince Tjan _wants_ to see, apparently. Personally, she'd find it more frustrating than anything else. She doesn't use maps frequently, but she imagines seeing the _whole_ area would be more helpful.

Sedir. Gah. It _tries_ to make their lives easier, but only fails.

Additionally, she _can_ sense the faint spell on the map. Every child in the Nine is born with a sensitivity _to_ sedir, but only few can wield it. Sif is not among them. Honestly, after learning all the dangers that come with becoming a craftsman or woman in the art, she doesn't understand why anyone would like the risk. She can sense spells or magic, every child is trained to, and the map is thick with it.

"My men have already searched here for the Siren's captives, but found no success," Prince Tjan gestures with a hand over a large area, and Sif blows out a stray piece of hair from her face. It's a sizable chunk, but not nearly enough to take pride in.

"The Weeping Siren's cries can frequently be heard from going east," Captain Yan adds calmly, and Sif's gaze flicks towards the bald man. "But, as you can see, we've found no evidence to support the claim."

Thor hums with agreement.

"Our plan is to march into this territory," Prince Tjan gestures a little past his first indicated area, "and search. We don't have much to go off except a few descriptions and our own experience. We hope to follow it back to whatever lair it has and retrieve the children first."

"Have you tried using a searching spell?" Loki questions, and Sif tries her best not to roll her eyes. Of _course_ he would fall back on sedir. He can't hunt in the normal, _perfectly effective_ way.

"Yes," Captain Yan assures, "but we've lost three sedirmasters to the Blodig Skog and killed two others. Sedir doesn't...the energy in the forest is tainted. It doesn't work as well in there."

Prince Tjan sighs deeply, heavily, "Prepare to leave first light. We'll get as far as we can into Blodig Skog before returning here. Once we've received word that someone heard the Siren, we'll leave Ju completely. Until then," Prince Tjan rises to his feet, and the other members of his guard follow suit. "My men and I are going to rest. Thank you again for coming to our aid," Prince Tjan adds and gives a low dip of his head in respect, grabbing his map.

Thor nods in agreement. "Of course. Asgard stands at your side."

Prince Tjan, Captain Yan, and the others leave the table; once they've slipped up the stairs towards the rooms, Sif feels a slight weight slide from her shoulders. Their presence was unsettling in a way she can't place. Maybe it was just their anxiety, but it felt like something deeper. They all looked sick and slightly dazed. As if they weren't all _here._

Fandral blows out a breath, "Cheerful fellows, aren't they?"

Thor snorts. "Hardly. They are paranoid and ill."

Sif shifts, "How certain _are_ we that this is a real threat, and not something they've imagined up?"

"The locals are all in on the game, then." Volstagg points out, and Sif flicks her gaze to the large redhead at the sound of his voice. It's the first time he's spoken in this entire conversation, and she'd be lying to say she didn't forget that he was _here._

Hogun shakes his head. "My sister _is_ missing, and other children. Where did they go if not claimed by this beast?"

"Anywhere but Vanaheim?" Fandral mutters under his breath, "Everyone is a bit peaky here, no offense, Hogun," he rests a hand on the Vanir soldier's shoulder, and Sif sees the dark haired man shoot him a scowl. "You're wonderful shield-brother. And friend." Fandral promises with a tight smile.

"Will he be as wonderful when he's punched you?" Sif questions conversationally. "We've done enough denigration to his realm, I think."

Loki leans back against his chair, arms crossed over his chest as he stares at the ceiling. "Prince Tjan lied. They haven't taken any sedirmasters into the woods." He mutters. And he can tell _because?_ Well, the best liars make the best detectors, she supposes, but that still doesn't _justify_ his mistrust in the prince. He's been nothing but paranoid since they arrived on Vanaheim this morning.

Thor looks up at him, "Come now, Brother. We have no reason to doubt his word."

Loki's eyebrow raises and he glances up at his sibling, looking a little miffed. "Yet you were _just—"_

"We don't doubt there's a _creature_ in the woods," Volstagg interrupts, "we just don't know what it _is._ It could be a bear or dragon for all we know, but Prince Tjan treats it as dragr. Perhaps he _has_ turned to sedir for assistance, you can't know."

The Snake Prince sighs deeply, eyes briefly closing before he rises to his feet. "If it's all the same to you then, I'd rather not spend the entire search exhausted tomorrow. Good night." He doesn't wait for a response before walking off towards the stairs leading to the rooms, and Sif sighs deeply.

_He's in a mood. Lovely._

She bites back a remark, but only just.

Thor nods, running a hand through his hair. He rises to his feet after a moment, grabbing Mjolnir. "My brother makes a point. Get some rest, my friends. Tomorrow we hunt and kill this Weeping Siren for Asgard!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be August...sometime. Don't know when, but then-ish. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait. I sort of meant August as a joke, but here we are. :)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your support! :) You're all amazing!
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope, nada.
> 
> Warnings: Supernatural elements, bullying, some violence.
> 
> Also, as a note, I think that Asgardian "adulthood" or "coming of age" is reached at Earth 16.

* * *

Sif wakes up stiff and in a foul mood. The mattress had a spot that kept jabbing at her back no matter what position she tried, so she didn't get much sleep. She spent a majority of the night rolling back and forth and listening to the faint cries of something outside. Not a pack of wolves, but nothing she could place either. Still, animalistic.

It sounded familiar, but in a haunting way.

So maybe it's less of she "wakes up" as it is she gives up on trying to sleep as early as she deems acceptable and prepares herself for the day ahead. Despite the inn's popularity with the locals, very few people appear to venture into Ju unless they have to. Sif was given her own room, for which she's grateful. She wouldn't have been opposed to bunking with the men, but a few hours by herself did not go unwelcomed.

Volstagg snores anyway, and she's never against being able to avoid listening to that.

Sif straps her sword at her hip, prepares her travel bag, and pulls her hair up. With the strands no longer bothering her, she attaches her spear and shield onto her pack and swings it over one shoulder. Prince Tjan mentioned leaving at first light last night, if she's remembering right, so she'll be a little early, but not excessively so.

Sif blows out a breath as she looks over the room a final time to make sure she's gathered everything she needs. She thinks so. Anything else will be with Restless.

Sif closes the door behind her and saunters down the stairs silently, trying to pretend she isn't as exhausted as she is. There won't be time to dally once they leave, so she'll just have to manage with the little sleep she got. After a day of heavy riding, and hopefully finding the children and killing the beast, Sif doubts she'll have the same troubles sleeping this night.

When she reaches the tavern, she notes without much surprise that Loki and Hogun are already sitting at a table, picking at some sort of porridge without enthusiasm. Loki looks like he got ran over by an unhappy stampede, but Hogun looks perfectly content. Not much of a surprise. Hogun is an early riser, no matter the hour he goes to sleep and Loki doesn't sleep.

Exaggeration, Loki _does_ sleep, but in all their time spent together, Sif has seen him do it very little. He seems to find the challenge of running off of as few hours as possible exhilarating. Maybe he thinks himself above such meager things, she doesn't know, doesn't care.

"May I join you?" Sif questions as she reaches the table they've claimed, and Hogun looks up. His eyes seem slightly shaded, and she's struck with the realization that he didn't sleep well either. Maybe it wasn't _just_ her. There's something _off_ about this place. A rotted energy. It settles against her skin in an unnerving way, leaving her slightly ill and strangely energized.

She can't wait to kill this beast so they can leave.

"Please," Hogun indicates to the empty chairs and Sif takes the one beside him, but across from the second prince. He looks worse than Hogun does, his cheeks slightly flushed, and eyes rooted forward, staring at nothing.

Sif peels her gaze away from him, turning to look at something more pleasant. The table is chipped around one edge, as if someone took a hard swing at it, but the rest has obviously been scrubbed down hundreds of times. There's evidence of a recent spill of mead on the floor near her feet, and with it rises the unpleasant stale smell.

She's pretty sure that the spill happened after the workers retired for the night, or else they missed it in their rounds.

Given the early hour of the morning, Sif had half expected the tavern to be empty, but she can spot two others. They aren't sitting together. Both their gazes are lifted up, hands still, and there's that _gleam_ in their eyes that reminds her of last night. Sif realizes almost dully that it's not just Prince Tjan and his guard that carry that... _thing_ about them.

The weird mixture between despair and something else.

As if they aren't completely here.

Sif's eyes narrow, but she doesn't comment on it, turning her attention back to their table. She's probably just imagining things anyway, trying to create a fiction because of the paranoia that floats around Ju like a fog. Spend enough time with the uneasy and their disquiet will rub off.

It's going to be a long few days.

"Did you sleep well?" Sif turns to Hogun, trying to focus on something else. Hogun pauses, and then looks up at her. He's not a conversationalist, she knows this, and perhaps it was a bit much to expect that he'd be willing to comply so readily.

"No." Hogun answers after a moment, "I did not."

"I didn't either," Sif admits, and, not really wanting to dive into details adds: "I don't know what it was, but I felt...ill at ease."

"Mm." Loki voices, and Sif looks up at him, suddenly defensive. She doesn't want to be pestered or teased about it. There is something _off_ about this entire town, and she can't be the only one to have realized this. Last night only settled her quiet suspicions, but they'd been building since the Bifrost dropped them off here.

" _What_?" she snaps.

Loki's unfocused gaze seems to reign in a little and he looks towards her face. " _That_ is the enchantment of the Blodig Skog. Welcome to your first taste, and prepare yourself for the feast."

Sif's eyebrows furrow. She should have paid more attention to what King Odin was saying yesterday. Every child has a basic understanding about the Blodig Skog: it's enchanted and wandering through it alone is bad. She'd never bothered to get a deeper knowledge because it hasn't been important. Vanaheim isn't a place they venture often.

She stares at the Snake Prince, the word is slipping out before she can stop it: " _What?"_

Loki's lip twitches up in a whisper of a smirk, but it fades just as quickly. "It leaves all feeling paranoid, restless, sick—the effects are almost limitless. There is a reason it drives people mad, Sif, and it isn't because it's large and the creatures it hides within. We're close enough that wisps of the spell can reach us here."

Well. _That's_ good to know _now._ A warning before hand would have been better. She'd been half hoping that the curse was an exaggeration.

Evidently not.

"Wonderful," Sif grumbles. " _Now_ you tell us."

Loki's eyes linger on her for a moment longer, an expression she can't place on his face before his head tilts up and he resumes staring forward at nothing. Hogun finishes his porridge and Sif waits in silence for the others to arrive.

It takes under ten minutes for Thor, Volstagg and Fandral to join them at the table. They all look a little worn, but not without good spirits. A young serving girl brings them some breakfast, and Sif mentally braces herself before eating anything.

The food tastes hot, as it always does on Vanaheim, and she bites at her lip, quietly longing for Asgard's familiar spices. Everyone she's met who isn't native to the realm insists that Asgard's food has no taste, and maybe that's why this meal seems so disgusting. She's also heard the jest—far to many times to be humorous now—that Asgard isn't a peacekeeper, but put the Nine back together in a desperate attempt to find flavor.

Either way, the food doesn't suit her fancy.

She barely chokes down the meal, quietly grateful that they'll be spending the rest of the day in the woods and forced to eat off of their rations. She'd rather that than the food's attempt to burn her throat open.

She notes from the corner of her eye as Loki only eats the side of bread they were given, not attempting to really pick at the porridge. She can't blame him. The only reason she noticed was because Thor asks if he can have it and Loki nods quietly.

She downs as much water as she dares, and waits at the table with the others for the rest of their party.

And waits.

_And waits._

"Prince Tjan did want to leave before first light, didn't he?" Volstagg questions at last, eyebrows furrowing somewhat as he looks towards the stairs. They've all been up for the better part of half an hour now, and the sun has already made an appearance in the sky.

If that _was_ Prince Tjan's goal, they've failed miserably.

Thor shrugs, "I'm unaware, he wasn't very clear on that."

"He said first light," Loki murmurs quietly. His words are hard to pick out from how he's leaning against his hands.

Sif represses a sigh. If this was _just_ them, they could have already made ground in the Blodig Skog. Instead, they're in the tavern, idling away time as they sit uselessly. The Vanir are going to slow them down. They should just go at this by themselves. They've handled quests like this before, it's not like the Weeping Siren will be any different.

It takes almost a full five minutes before Prince Tjan and the rest of his guard hobble down the stairs like they're drunk. Somehow, despite turning in early and having clearly not done anything but sleep since then, they look worse than yesterday. More haggard, sicker.

Sif remembers Loki's words about the Blodig Skog, but this seems... _different,_ somehow. As if they've been fighting off draugr for the better part of the night. They look weary, not just a little tired as she and the others.

Prince Tjan moves towards their table, looking flustered. "My apologies," he says as soon as he's close enough for them to hear. "It wasn't my intent to make us get such a late start, but, as I said, my men and I are exhausted."

" _Are_ exhausted"? Still? Despite more than thirteen hours of sleep?

"Don't worry," Thor promises, smiling faintly, "better late than never, yes?"

Prince Tjan gives a weary smile, "Yes. Yes, I suppose so."

After a few following quick words to confirm their plans of leaving, Sif and the others leave to prepare their horses as the soldiers grab something to eat. They're all mostly quiet as they accomplish the task, save a few quick words between Thor and Hogun that Sif can't really remember.

Then they're off.

They tear the forest apart that day, searching for something— _anything_ as to where the beast is, but they find nothing. Sif's legs are aching from being perched on her mare the whole day, and she's beyond exhausted when they finally stumble back into the inn that night with nothing but sour moods to show of their successes.

Nothing.

How could they have found _nothing?_

Hogun is one of the best trackers that she knows, but beyond a few traces that the Siren had _been_ here, there had been no other indications of its existence. No footprints, no den, no screaming children, only the endless forest stretching out around them.

The people are hopeful with wide eyes and innocent questions when they arrive back in Ju, but despair when Prince Tjan admits, with no small anger towards them, that even with Asgard's aid, the creature did not show itself.

"Our children will be taken!" a woman murmurs, "We're all going to _die!"_

"The Siren escapes _Asgard!"_ another chokes out.

"What hope is there for us!?"

Thor and Prince Tjan's platitudes fall on deaf ears. No one is listening, to swallowed up by their misery to be consoled. This Siren has eaten up the hope of the town like a meal and refuses to spit it back up. It makes her sick.

Wherever it is, _whatever_ it is, the Weeping Siren better pray it is a dumb beast. Sif will not show it mercy if it possesses intelligent thought. Hogun said in the stable yesterday that Vanaheim dragged Prince Tjan into this because they've begun to suspect the Siren _is_ a being of thought. Given their inability to catch it, Sif is beginning to agree.

They spent _hours_ in those woods, and have nothing for it.

They've already eaten, so when they get back to the inn, Sif forgoes sitting at the table to listen to the men complain and Prince Tjan berate them for not finding anything to slip upstairs for rest. She swears that _man—_ Prince Tjan spent a majority of the day between yelling and wallowing in despair for some cause she can't find the source of.

It all seems so ridiculous.

This—this _creature_ is eluding them.

She slams the door to her room shut, quietly grateful to be rid of her company. She usually has no qualms spending hours with men, but she's spent the entire day on a horse as the Vanir warriors quietly mocked her voice and skillset.

It's nothing new. Before she proved her place among the Einherjar so many years ago, Asgard's warriors would do much the same, sneering her name under their breath and laughing at her expense freely. It drove her crazy when she was younger, but she'd long thought she'd moved past that on different realms beyond her own.

She's helped the Nine too much to _not_ think so, and maybe it was a little arrogant, but what matter? She's _good_ and she _knows_ she is. The Vanir won't be able to deny it when they see her in action. They're all just rude, and that's that. Needless to say though, she reached her limit of socializing for the day as of about four hours ago.

Sif tosses her pack onto the mattress before throwing herself onto it a moment later. The bed is still lumpy in odd places and smells faintly of rotting fish. Everything in Ju smells weird or fuzzy, and Sif really doesn't take pleasure in that. It's almost to the point of unbearable.

She buries her head into the pillow and breathes out slowly.

Tomorrow will be better. She's sure it will be better. They'll find more success with the beast then. For now, she's just going to sleep, and pretend she's not seething.

000o000

She awakens from a half daze to the sound of someone quietly moaning on the other side of the wall. She stiffens, but recognizes it as one of the soldiers a moment later. The anxiety doesn't leave her. She can hear them through the thin walls, and their quiet words make something inside her coil with discomfort.

"It's going to whisper," one of the men keeps murmuring, " _I keep hearing it whisper."_

"Shh," another chides, "you're going to summon it. _Hush!"_

" _It's going to whisper."_ The man repeats.

"Do you want the Siren _here,_ man? _Hush!"_

Over and over they go until the man falls asleep, murmuring words of unease and discomfort as if admitting they are so will save their frightened souls. Sif has no idea what it _is_ about this creature that has them so unsettled. It seems ridiculous. She's seen horrors that these men could only _dream_ of in her quests and journeys with Thor, a dubbed _siren_ can't be _that_ awful.

It's a _siren,_ not a draugr.

Needless to say, after hearing the Vanir's murmurings throughout the night, Sif is anything but cheerful in the morning when Thor slips into her room and rests a hand on her shoulder to wake her. Her brown eyes lift to his blue, and she can see no traces of exhaustion on his face.

He must have slept through the night.

_Lucky._

"We're leaving in ten minutes," Thor says without much emotion. "Can you be ready?"

Sif nods, shoving up to her elbow and scrambling off the bed to prepare for the day as Thor exits the room. She picks halfheartedly at breakfast, not finding herself fully capable of being hungry before they're being swept off into the woods again. She's tired and more than a little grouchy from yesterday's failures, so she keeps quiet as much as she's able.

At least, until well after midday when Hogun pulls his stallion to a stop and looks back at Prince Tjan. "We've been here before. Twice. We're going in circles." Hogun points out, expression far from impressed.

Prince Tjan's eyebrow furrows and the rest of them come to a halt behind the Vanir. "That can't be right."

"You haven't used your map today, my lord," Hogun's voice is steady.

"I don't need it," Prince Tjan shoots down, "I've been here enough to know my way around these woods by now."

Has he? Sif can remember someone explaining to her at some point that the Blodig Skog _changes_ the deeper you go _,_ offering the illusion of familiarity as it swallows you whole. Something in her chest coils with discomfort. The Blodig Skog has thus far seemed mostly like any other forest save one minute detail: it is _quiet._

There isn't any rustling of wind through the trees, no birds singing, or movement of distant animals. The woods are normal enough save that and the general disconcertment of it. Everywhere she moves there's a quiet unease within her that insists that _something isn't right here._ And Prince Tjan has been leading them in circles, because he _hasn't used the map._

The map that will keep them _alive_ and get them out.

"Are you _stupid?"_ the question slips out before she can stop it. "Why would you not consult the paths? Shouldn't being _in_ these woods have given you a better understanding of _why_ doing so is important?"

Prince Tjan's eyes flash with anger.

"Oooh, is the little lady afraid of the woods? Scared that a Frost Giant will jump out and eat you?" One of the men in the guard asks, and Sif flicks her gaze up to find him in the crowd. No one sticks out. Her cheeks flush some anyway.

"I am _not—"_

"You know nothing of these woods, Lady Sif," Prince Tjan interrupts. " _I do._ Don't question my methods. We need to move, we could lose the Weeping Siren by your incessant asking."

They already _have_ lost it. Prince Tjan doesn't seem to know what he's doing, but flaunts the authority of his title like he does. If it had just been them, they would have found something. Dragging along the extra men and consequent opinions and attitudes is what is going to make progress wane. Sif grits her teeth.

Prince Tjan stares at her face for a long second, then glances towards Hogun before nudging his horse forward again. By some streak of luck, they manage to make it from the woods that night. Sif really has her doubts that it had anything to do with Prince Tjan's navigational skills.

The Blodig Skog let them go. She doesn't know how she knows that, only that she _does,_ and it unsettles her.

There is something wrong with those woods.

They return to the inn and Sif collapses against her bed, hoping for something better to happen tomorrow. The men are no more quiet than they were last night, still moaning and whispering into the night, but her exhausted mind has no trouble ignoring it this night.

The next day doesn't yield anymore fruit.

Or the third.

It's on the evening of the fourth, as they all sit around the despairing tavern drinking themselves senseless, that Loki hesitantly speaks up: "Prince Tjan, perhaps...we have had little success in our endeavours thus far to find the creature. I'm no stranger to sedir, if you would, perhaps, let me attempt a tracking spell, I could—"

Prince Tjan's drink smacks down on the tabletop, splashing mead over the rim. "Absolutely not! You'll get yourself killed like the other arrogant muttonheads who thought they could outdo the Blodig Skog's enchantments."

Loki's expression tightens a fraction. "I would beg to differ."

Of course he would. Arrogant prat.

"So did they!" Prince Tjan counters angrily, " _I know the woods._ You won't accomplish anything by waving your hands around and getting yourself and the rest of us lost or dead because you're untrained and your ego speaks more than common sense—"

Loki rises to his feet in a smooth motion, placing his hands against the tabletop, expression briefly flickering with anger. "This has nothing to _do_ with showing off, cousin."

Sif's eyebrow lifts slightly. "Isn't it always with you?"

Thor kicks her foot under the table, and Loki glances at her. His look isn't quite scathing, but it is enough to make her hesitate. Loki pulls his gaze away from her face, turning back to Prince Tjan. His voice is steady when he speaks, "Cousin, your men are exhausted. _You_ are tiring and we have made no more progress these last few days than a mere handful of directions. If you would just _let_ me try, I'm sure I could—"

"I said _no."_ Prince Tjan snaps. "I'll not lose another person to those blasted woods."

Sif bites at her lip, surprised by his fury. He's been nothing but irritable since this began, and he's getting worse. Yesterday he shouted at she and Fandral for lagging behind a few leagues. And they weren't, Fandral thought he'd seen something.

It's the simple, stupid, little things that set him off.

Sif cannot wait until they are back in Asgard and she doesn't have to speak to him any longer. She has no idea how anyone can stand to be in his presence for more than a handful of hours. It's a wonder Ju hasn't discretely removed of him. Or his guard.

Loki's eyes narrow some, and Thor reaches a hand out as if to grab his sibling and tug him back into his seat. Before he can, though, Loki tugs up his gloves on his fingers and offers a pleasant smile that's nothing but venom. "Another? Tjan, you have lost _no_ seidrmasters to those woods. I doubt you've even let them step foot there. What is it that you fear the use of sedir will bring?"

Prince Tjan's mouth snaps shut, panic visibly flashing over his features. "I _fear_ your untimely demise. You don't know those wo—"

"'Woods, I do'," Fandral finishes the princes insistence of several days now with a bored tone. He wipes his hair from his eyes before leaning forward. Loki's gaze shifts towards the swordmaster, something that's unmistakably surprise evincing his features. "Yes, we've heard. But I _am_ curious now, how _is_ it that all these seidrmasters died? Does the Weeping Siren hop out and gobble 'em up, do they just explode, does their sedir collapse or…?"

Prince Tjan's lips thin and he releases an agitated breath, head turning to the side. Sif has her doubts he'll discuss anything with them. Typical. When they need information, that's when he withholds it. Gah, she _hates_ working with him.

Captain Yan leans forward, resting his clasped hands on the tabletop. "Tell me Master Fandral, how much do you know about tracking spells?"

Fandral's lip twists, "About as much as the next person. Once you've started you can't stop looking for the thing, unable to rest, unable to eat, yada-yada. Supposed to be one of the most difficult spells to master and used sparingly. Why? No, wait...are you _really_ suggesting that _every_ seidrmaster you've sent in there you've _lost_ because they actually _found_ the Weeping Siren?"

"We couldn't keep up with them." Captain Yan's jaw tightens. "Yes. We lost them, Master Fandral. Found the bodies of three of the five."

The numbers seem off. Sif remembers Captain Yan mentioning this a few days ago, but didn't he say something else? No, she's being stupid. It's the paranoia of Ju and the Blodig Skog, it's rubbing off of her. She needs to leave this place before it swallows her good senses entirely.

"No, you _didn't!"_ Loki seethes, patience apparently reaching a breaking point. " _Stop. Lying._ Why are you all being so cryptic about this? I could have this creature found within _hours,_ yet you insist upon wandering in the same circle for _days_ hoping to come up with different results. This is insanity. Those children are without their parents because _you_ insist on making this harder than it needs to be!"

Prince Tjan slams up to his feet, and Sif shifts, discomforted. "I am _not!_ Who do you think you are, boy!? You are barely an adult in the eyes of _your_ laws. How dare you, a _child,_ accuse me of negligence!"

Loki's spine ripples, but before he can do anything stupid, Thor grabs at his arm. He's on his feet as well, though Sif can't remember when he stood. "Brother, enough. Prince Tjan is right. You have no reason to be accusing him so." Thor says, his voice harsh.

Loki makes a choked noise, looking up at his sibling. "Brother, he's—"

" _Enough,_ Loki. Know your place." Thor chides, and then looks up at Prince Tjan. The dark-haired man is still visibly fuming, perhaps a few well chosen words away from drawing his weapon and outright tackling someone. Sif's stomach churns uneasily, and she grips the hilt of her sword should the need of defense arise.

_Curses._

They weren't exactly bosom friends in the making, but Loki's distrust has offended Prince Tjan in a way that may not be soothed before they're finished. Hogun shouldn't have been so worried over herself and Fandral making a mess of the peace treaty, Loki has already beaten them to it with his silvertongue.

Brilliant.

Prince Tjan's teeth click together before he lifts out a shaking hand and jabs it in Loki's direction. " _You_ are a disrespectful Ergi. Until such a time you can prove yourself trustworthy by _offering_ some trust to my word, I refuse to continue the hunt with you, Liesmith."

Loki draws back as Thor makes a wounded noise. Sif feels her eyes widen with surprise. _What?_

Thor's hand tightens and he rises to his feet, the air thickening with the taste of ozone. "You would _dare_ imply that my brother—"

Loki grabs at his sibling's arm. "Thor, stop," his voice is quiet. Tired. "It's alright; really. Just—calm down." Thor's jaw sets, but the tension in the room lessons some. Prince Tjan remains where he is, seeming unsure how to proceed given the circumstances. Sif blows out a quiet breath. If Loki had just remained quiet, _none of this would have happened._

_Thanks a million, Loki._

Captain Yan remains still for another moment before he stands beside his prince. "We need to plan our approach of tomorrow—" and by that he means decide a _new_ part of the forest to run around in for hours "—but it would be best to do this out of prying ears, I think." Captain Yan finishes, sending a pointed glance at the tavern first, and then settles his gaze on Loki.

Sif doesn't see a point to this. What is he worried about, people will _follow?_ Who in their right mind would—oh. Loki would. _Loki_ would, and Captain Yan has apparently picked up enough on his character to put that together. Marvelous.

"Agreed," Prince Tjan says tonelessly. "Everyone, follow me. We discuss, then we sleep. You," he points a shaking finger at Loki, "stay here. You are not welcomed in tomorrow's hunt."

Loki's face is unreadable, but he gives a curt nod and sits back down as the rest of them rise to their feet. Prince Tjan begins to walk off, presumably towards the exit, but before Sif can make it more than a few steps from the table, Thor grabs her upper arm. "Will you stay here, with him?" he jerks his head towards Loki, and Sif bites back a sputter of disbelief.

"Why?" Sif demands, her voice just as low as the Crown Prince's. "I'm not going to _watch_ him, Thor. He's well past that age now, I should _hope._ "

"I believe the Blodig Skog is affecting his mind," Thor whispers, "I can see no other reason why he would make such a claim against our cousin. Please. I'll debrief you when I return. It would only be for a few minutes."

Sif's teeth set. She doesn't _want_ to sit her and play Loki's chaperone. She's a warrior. She _deserves_ to be out there, planning with the others how they will hunt this beast...but Thor is right. If Loki's mind has been touched by the enchantment, someone should keep watch to make sure he doesn't run off on a murderer spree, or something equally unflattering to Asgard's name.

_Norns._

"Fine," Sif grits out, "I'll stay with him. Now _go."_

Thor releases her arm and gives a nod of thanks before rushing off after the others. After watching the door close behind him, Sif returns to the table and takes her previous seat. Loki has his head resting in his hands, but he looks up as the chair grinds against the wood. If he's surprised at her return, it doesn't show on his face.

His eyes sweep across her, and Sif is once again met with the unsettling feeling that the intelligence the green holds can pick apart her person and decipher her greatest secrets without effort. She smooths a stray piece of hair away from her face, and then folds her arms across her chest, looking away from him.

"Thor doubts me so much that he—" Loki cuts himself off, exhales deeply, and then, in a voice strangely toneless says: "I'm not rapid, Sif."

Sif doesn't look at him still. "Yes, well, given how readily you believe Prince Tjan was lying to us, I don't know if your the best judge on that. Honestly, Loki, he hasn't been untruthful to us since this began, and you _accuse_ him—"

"I didn't _accuse_ him of anything," Loki cuts in, voice heated, "he has been lying through his teeth since we got here."

"And you know this because the best liars make fine detectors, don't they?" Sif counters sharply, chancing a glance at his pale face. Loki's eyes are shadowed more than she remembers them being, and his cheeks are slightly flushed. Fever? Perhaps he _has_ taken ill. Wouldn't that be a show of timing?

Loki's fingers curl, and he releases a deep breath.

He says nothing.

Sif's lip curls up in a small smile, but the victory doesn't feel much like one. She sighs deeply and then looks over at him. "Look, Thor will be unfocused if you stay here all of tomorrow, you know how he is. Apologize to Prince Tjan when he comes back inside, _make_ yourself trustworthy. I know you can create a persona of whatever you choose should you put your mind to it. If we _do_ run into the Siren tomorrow, I want everyone to be at their best, especially Thor. This creature has killed dozens."

She doesn't want it to kill any of their party, but admittance of that seems weak and childish so she can't outright _say_ it. And, loathe she is to admit it, Loki _can_ be of help from long distance. Whether with his daggers or his bow, he's kept them out of trouble a few times. They might need that with this creature. No one else besides Loki has carried a bow that she's seen so far. Sif's beginning to suspect that Prince Tjan's guard are all short distance fighters. It seems ineffective, but it's not her place to judge.

"I am capable of making amends without instruction," Loki says dryly. "I should think you don't need to point out the obvious to me."

Sif's ire grows. "Norns, I'm just trying to _help._ Why do you have to be such a prat all the time? It's no wonder people groan at your company, you only prove time and time again what a _burden_ it is to bare."

She hadn't meant to say that outloud. Alright, she hadn't meant to say it like _that._ It seems nasty, but she's not about to take back the truth to appease Loki's _feelings._ Loki is always so sensitive anyway, it will help him harden into a seasoned warrior.

Loki's head whips up to her, eyes heated. " _Beg pardon_?"

"You heard me perfectly." Sif promises, and then makes a disgusted noise as his expression doesn't flicker. Always so _blank._ How can he manage that for so long? Why _does_ he? "Fine. You know what, _don't_ apologize to Prince Tjan, I'd rather you _not_ come along in the first place. What good to you offer? A conjurer of cheap tricks who keeps begging to do a spell far to advanced for his skill level? So wonderful to have you along."

She bites at her tongue, trying to _will_ herself into calming down. She's never attempted to be actively mean to Loki, but sometimes words just _slips out_ and she can't stop them. Sif sees no point in lies, but perhaps softening her truths would stop the awful thing twisting in her gut from building.

Guilt. Perhaps shame.

Loki's eyes narrow. "Because a woman begging to prove her worth at every corner isn't any less—" Loki's voice is cut off as the door to the tavern is thrown open with a loud _bang_ and a tall, bearded man all but throws himself into the room, dragging a hysterical woman by the waist into the space.

"Idrissa!" the woman wails, raking her nails along the man's arm like she intends to force him to release her. " _IDRISSA! My baby!_ She's so _young!"_

Adrenaline washes through Sif as the man throws the sobbing woman onto the ground in an effort to be rid of her and lets out a loud cry of terror. "The Siren is _here!_ " he screams. " _It cries!_ Oh, _it cries!"_

" _Idrissa!"_

"So soon?" a man demands, breathlessly. "It was just here nary a few days ago!"

"It comes!" the man insists, "Save your souls, Helheim has cursed us!"

The entire tavern loses it's joyful mood immediately. A different woman lets out a shrill cry and grabs for her two children, several men scramble to snatch weapons. The keeper of the inn goes pale, "Bar yourselves in the building! No one leaves until it's gone!"

"Oh, it _sings_!"

"I can hear it screaming," someone whispers.

Sif can't hear anything, and the panic is making her tense. It's outside, isn't it? Thor and the Warriors Three are outside, along with the others. What if it—? All words of retort go dry in her mouth in their argument suddenly seems to _petty._ She and Loki share a look before Sif grabs her sword as Loki moves for his bow.

Thor. Fandral. Volstagg. Hogun. They need to—

They scramble up to their feet and move for the door before the sobbing woman grabs for Loki's hand, stopping them in their tracks.

Sif draws at her sword some, but the woman seems to have no ill intentions.

"H-High P-Prince L-L-Loki, p-p-please, find-find my daughter. The Siren took my b-baby. She's s-s-so young and-and-and—" she lets out another wail through her teeth. " _Find my baby!_ I'll do a-anything for you...I'll-I'll...I'll— _oh!"_

Sif half expects Loki to free himself of the grip and move for the door— _they don't have a lot of time—_ as Sif would have done, but Loki instead squats down in front of the woman and cups distressed mother's hand between both of his own. "Shh, woman, all will be well. We will find your daughter, I swear."

"Please," the woman gasps, "she's all I-I ha-have. _Please."_

"Dry your tears," Loki instructs, "Idrissa will be returned to you."

It's an empty promise. No child has returned from the Weeping Siren before, and why would this Idrissa be the first? Sif nonetheless grits her teeth and gently grabs at Loki's elbow, "My prince," she whispers pointedly.

Loki helps the woman up to her feet and then into a chair with further offered platitudes. The action takes less than twenty seconds, but it's still a drag in their time. She and Loki barely manage to make it between the panicking people to the door before the innkeeper slams it shut and locks it.

No retreats, then.

Good.

It will encourage them to try harder.

Outside, the streets are chaos. There's a mad scramble to get inside of buildings and children are being snatched off the ground into their elders arms. She can't see any of the rest of their party—they should be here. Outside of the inn and they _aren't,_ so where...?—and it takes her a moment to adjust to the _noise._

When they returned from the Blodig Skog, not even half an hour past, it was relatively quiet. The people were talking, and there was the faint sounds of housework, but it was nothing like this. There isn't enough light to see a source—and frankly it seems to be coming from _everywhere_ at once—but Sif squints into the dark all the same, resisting the urge to clamp her hands over her ears.

The noise is a mix between someone sobbing or screaming. A woman, if Sif's guessing right by the pitch. It's just...it sounds like the wailing of the dead. The kind of noise that someone only makes when they're being blood eagled or strangled to death.

Something inside of her freezes, squirming back and hiding. There's just _something...something...she_ can't—Her tongue is stuck against the roof of her mouth.

This isn't like the other sirens they've encountered. Those always held a musical pitch, some sort of alluringness to the song. The Weeping Siren, they'd dubbed it, and Sif thinks she finally understands half the name. There is weeping, but the siren portion seems the furthest from the truth it could possibly be. This sounds like someone shrieking in pain. But there's still _something—_

She can't—

_What is wrong with that—?_

Hands grab at her shoulders and shake her roughly. Sif snaps back, her muscles tensing. "Sif," Loki looks pale, but otherwise focused from his position in front of her. " _Pay attention."_

Her cheeks heat with embarrassment, but her limbs still feel jittery. "There's...it's…" she fumbles out, trying to get him to _understand._ She's never heard anything like this before, and she needs him to grasp that it's...why does he seem so unfrazzled? Can't he _hear_ that!?

"We need to find my brother and the others," Loki says, keeping his hands on her shoulders. A slight scowl flicks on the edges of his face, but it seems mostly forced. "The idiots probably chased after the thing."

"How is that a bad thing?" Sif demands, drawing in a deep breath and rests a hand on her sword hilt. "Aren't we _supposed_ to be killing it!?"

"Yes!" Loki releases her shoulders and grabs her wrist instead, dragging her off towards the west. That can't be right. Prince Tjan said all reports of the screaming came from the east. Sif doesn't know how anyone could _tell_ a direction, though, because the noise is coming from everywhere. It's circling, running amok around them as if to taunt.

Sif thinks she might be sick. The pitch is so high it aches like a dull bruise.

"We're going the wrong way," Sif insists, and wiggles her arm free of Loki so she can come to a halt. "Everyone reported the cries coming from the east. We need to be going _east,_ you idiot! That's where the others will have gone and if we're looking for them—why are we going west? Loki, I swear on the Allfathers that if this is some sort of—"

Loki spins, face hard. "You have the magical range of a small spoon. _I don't._ The Weeping Siren is using sedir to create this—" Loki swings his hand out in a wide arc "—effect. It's an effort to throw off trackers, you dolt. How do you think its _lasted_ five years? Bribery?"

Sif sputters. "Well, no, but I—"

"I'm tracking the source of the sedir. The wielder is arrogant enough to not bother with putting forth the small effort of masking themselves. Thor and the others will be off to the east, which puts them well out of the range of danger, but we don't have enough time to track them down, we need to find Idrissa and our timetable is growing small. Are you coming or not?" Loki begins stalking forward again, and Sif bites at her lower lip for a long second. She tastes blood.

_Norns curse it all._

He brings up valid points, and she's not stupid enough to ignore it. She blows out a breath through her teeth before jogging to catch up with him. "Fine, but if you get us lost in the woods, I'm going to kill you." She says flatly.

She's not sure if it's her imagination or not, but Loki's expression flashes with brief relief. "Fair enough." Loki mumbles under his breath.

They quickly exit the borders of the town, slipping into the Blodig Skog. Sif's stomach churns as they step inside, the now familiar _wrongness_ washing over her. Loki plows forward without any hesitation, and Sif follows, drawing her sword.

The moon offers little light to see by given the thick overcast of tree branches, but Loki tugs off his gloves with his teeth and stuffs them inside of his satchel. After flexing his fingers a few times, his veins begin to glow a dull, yellow-ish white. The chemical release of sedir into the bloodstream frequently leaves the caster's hands veins glowing, which is why Sif suspects that Loki is always wearing gloves now. Taking them off provides a little light to see by, enough that Sif doesn't need to squint.

The Weeping Siren's cries continue, but they're getting softer, as if the beast is losing its voice.

They've plowed forward a little over seven minutes when Loki comes to a sudden stop and lifts his bow, drawing an arrow from his quiver. He doesn't draw it back, but leaves it prepared for doing so. The area they've stopped at is at the top of a hill leading down towards a slight clearing. Inside of the clearing, Sif can see two figures. A tall, bony creature with long silvered hair and a much smaller one.

Sif turns to Loki, "What?" she whispers softly.

Loki lifts a finger to his lips, and then turns to her and mouths something along the lines of " _Weeping down there."_ She picks up on the context and nods, readying herself as a thrum of excitement builds around her fingers. The Weeping Siren. Loki found it. After _days_ of searching, Loki found it in less than _twenty minutes._

Loki exhales softly before lifts his bow up and draws an arrow back to his cheek. Before he can release it, though, a soft cry pierces through the air. " _Maman!"_ a child cries, " _Maman,_ please! I'm scared! I don' wanna go!"

Sif's stomach drops. Idrissa. The woman's daughter. She's _here?_ That will make things hard, but not impossible. They just need to turn this into a rescue mission. Simple enough. She doesn't know what Loki plans to do with his arrows, but he can't scare the creature off. They need to take care of the child.

" _Maman!"_

Sif lifts up her sword and tenses her muscles. Loki's hands falter suddenly and his head whips towards her, "Sif, _wait!"_ he hisses, but as soon as the words have slipped off his tongue, the Weeping Siren's piercing cries come to an abrupt halt.

The sudden silence and withdrawal of the...thing—whatever it was that the Siren was doing to make her so jittery—is startling enough to cause Sif stagger forward a step, nearly tumbling face-first onto the hill. The arrow slips from Loki's fingers, rapidly moving towards the clearing.

_No._

The arrow lands somewhere in the dirt towards the edge of the space, but it's enough to startle the Siren. Eyes reflect light in the dark as they lift towards their position, and the creature moves towards the child.

_No._

Sif draws her sword up as Loki swears under his breath. She begins to move forward, but Loki grabs her arm, "Sif—!"

"It is going to take the child!" Sif can barely keep herself from screeching, " _Let me go!"_

She wiggles herself free from the grip, and breaks into a run down the hillside. Idrissa lets out a loud wail of terror, screeching out "Maman!" again, but by the time Sif gets there, it's too late. The Weeping Siren grabs hold of the child's arm and the two vanish in a lure of blue-ish light.

Sif staggers to a stop within the clearing, falling to her knees heavily and frantically grabs at the ground where the two were present. The dirt digs beneath her fingertips and the leafs do nothing more than flutter away from her force.

A low swear slips from her lips.

They were here. They were _right here_ and they could have _saved_ Idrissa if Loki hadn't startled the stupid creature away. If Loki hadn't held her back. If Loki hadn't—why on the Nine did anyone think it would be a good idea to bring someone so hopelessly _clumsy_ along with them on this delicate mission? Children are being _stolen_ and they brought Loki with them.

Her fist slams against the ground. So close. They were _so. Close._

Underbrush shifts behind her, and Sif lifts her head to see Loki standing there. His lips are thinned, hands still glowing softly. It makes her sick. Why had she believed, even for a second, that sedir was doing them any _good?_ Unless wielded by a master, it only creates more disaster than it helps and she'd _trusted_ Loki and they lost a little girl because of it.

That's nineteen now.

Nineteen parents who must mourn the loss of their children, one of which _she could have stopped._

Loki looks visibly uncomfortable. "Sif..." he starts quietly, "I'm sorry. I...I hadn't expected...I hadn't—"

"Of course you didn't," Sif agrees lowly, "and because of your arrogance, we just lost a _child!"_ Sif rises up to her feet, fury wrapping around her. "You Norns cursed idiot! If you just knew how to handle weapons like a proper warrior, this wouldn't have happened!"

Loki draws back, "I—"

" _You're_ supposed to be the magic expert, aren't you? Always flaunting that all of us are terrible with it and your skill level surpasses ours because you have the gift, well—look what good that did us." Sif lets out a loud, mocking laugh, sweeping her hand across the empty clearing.

They lost Idrissa.

"I'm sorry," Loki hisses, "I know that I make a mistake, do you have to keep—?"

Whatever words he was going to say, Sif doesn't hear the rest of. A fury so strong it nearly blinds her grasps a hold of her limbs and she slams her fist against his face. Loki staggers back, hands lifted up to his nose where she struck him. Blood is gushing between his fingers.

Sif releases an agitated sound, slamming her sword into the dirt and cusses loudly.

_They lost a child._

000o000

They're almost back to the inn when they run into the others. Sif was worried in the back of her mind that the Blodig Skog wouldn't release them, but it had, almost seeming usher them out as if disgusted with their presence. Loki has said nothing since they lost Idrissa, teeth set together and face turned away from her.

She's not complaining. She doesn't want to listen to him whine or bubble up useless excuses anyway.

Thor immediately grasps her shoulders as soon as they're close enough. "Sif? Are you well? We just returned from our hunt but had no success. Were you looking as well? You came from the west, why did you—"

"We found it." Sif states, her voice flat. "It got away with the child."

There's several inhales of surprise or disbelief. She's not sure which.

Her eyes are moist and Sif bites down on her tongue heavily, embarrassed. The failure stings, almost like a blow to the stomach would. She's among Asgard's elite. She's supposed to be better than this, but she's not. _This is all Loki's fault._

Thor looks aghast. "What? How? Why did you—?"

"Why don't you ask your brother?" Sif snaps, tearing away from him. "This is _his_ fault in the first place."

All eyes of the party go to the Snake Prince, and Loki's head tips up some before returning to his feet. Thor moves towards his sibling as Fandral rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Volstagg asks a quiet question with only his gaze of her health and she nods in assurance that she's fine.

"Brother, what happened to your face?" Thor questions, tipping his sibling's head up so he can stare at the bruise. Sif feels nothing regarding it. Maybe she will later, but right now there's only an all consuming numbness. ( _Loki deserved it.)_ Her hand hurts.

"I tripped." Loki mumbles.

Thor sighs, " _Loki._ Will you ever learn proper footing? You're always falling or smashing into things."

Loki's eyes heat, but the emotion drains away just as quickly. Prince Tjan takes a step forward towards the second prince, hair slick and face flushed from exhaustion. "You _found_ the Weeping Siren. You saw it?"

"Yes." Sif answers, "We saw it."

Barely. More of an outline and that ragged hair, but they _saw_ it, didn't they? Even when Sif got closer, she couldn't make out distinct features. Everything had blurred with her desperation to reach Idrissa.

Prince Tjan looks at Loki. "Well obviously your fantastical tracking spells did nothing, didn't they? You only saw the beast, like me and my men have." He sighs and then, "But I'm not stupid enough to lose numbers simply because of my pride. Join us tomorrow, we'll need more men if we are to find the children."

_What?_

Wonderful. Just— _wonderful._

Loki's gaze lifts to Thor's face, a flicker of something she can't place washing over his features. "Thank you, Prince Tjan, it would be my privilege to continue helping you."

"We leave at first light." Thor announces, "if the Siren is still around, we'll find it. For now, Sif, Brother, give us a report of your findings inside of the tavern. We'll need anything we can get to find the beast."

Sif exhales through her teeth. She has very little desire to admit her failures to _herself_ much less a group of more than a dozen. Marvelous. She clenches her fists, but follows the others inside of the building. Idrissa's mother looks up hopefully as they enter, still seated where Loki left her, but her face quickly crumbles as she doesn't see her daughter.

Wet tears trek down her face and Sif turns her gaze away, unable to bear it.

If they had just—this whole thing could have been avoided if they had just been _better._

After the discussion that Sif can barely remember much of, let alone _speaking_ in, Sif lays in bed for hours looking up at the rotting wooden ceiling. Her hand is bruising, but she doesn't care. They lost the child. They were so _close_ and if they'd just—Idrissa's mother's soft cries haunt her the rest of the night.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: August 9th, 16th or sometime inbetween that. ;) Until chapter 3! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write. :) #WritesHorrorWhileListeningToChristmasMusic #WhoCaresThatIt'sAugust
> 
> Brace yourselves, my stars. Spookiness all around. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing!
> 
> Also, Happy (maybe belated, or early) birthday, Thialien! I hope the next year is a good one. Also, happy birthday to anyone else whose birthday it may be. It's not my birthday, but it may be yours. :) *Face palms at my awkwardness*
> 
> Warning: Some violence, some gore, potentially disturbing imagery, haunting, and Sif is not the most pleasant person to Loki in her thoughts. :)

* * *

"We're not returning to the inn."

Sif pauses, processes the words, and then looks up from the porridge she's trying to will herself into eating to stare at Prince Tjan. The Vanir is standing next to the table with a piece of tough bread in one hand, a few members of his guard behind him. His hair is messy and there's a glassy look to his eyes.

"How do you figure?" Fandral questions from his position on her left. "We'll be dead?"

"No." Prince Tjan doesn't bother to keep any irritation from his tone. "We're staying in the Blodig Skog from this point forward. That child is our biggest lead. We have an entirely new part of the forest to look at thanks to her. We can't waste time traveling to and from there anymore, we need to go deeper. Prepare your overnight packs, we leave in twenty minutes."

With that stated, the prince turns on his heal and walks off, exiting the inn from the front. Like a pack of loyal dogs, the members of his guard follow, only a few shooting them snooty looks before they vanish. Sif represses a roll of her eyes at that and sighs, leaning back into the chair.

"Well at least they're up early." Volstagg encourages. "At long last."

The sun hasn't even peaked over the edge of the horizon yet, so it _is_ truly remarkable feat. She hasn't even seen their princes yet. Odd, but she's certain that Prince Tjan will have offered information to them first regarding this change of plans.

Fandral snorts. "Well, that's something, I suppose."

Sif hums, swirling her spoon through the porridge again. She's not certain how she feels about staying in the forest for so long. On one hand, it seems like a wise plan, on another...the brief respite that inn has offered from the Blodig Skog has been a welcomed one. Not that it matters anymore. They need to find Idrissa, and after the failure of last night, Sif is tired of wandering in circles. They need a plan of attack.

Prince Tjan seems to have finally realized this.

"Should we really be exposed to the magical effects for so long?" Volstagg asks, furrowing his brow. "I thought that returning to the inn was an attempt to settle what the magic has been doing."

"We can no longer hide here." Hogun counters, giving a slight shake of his head. "Any lead is a welcomed one. The closer we are to finding the Weeping Siren, the closer we are to retrieving my sister and the other children."

They were close last night. And then Loki messed it up. Her hand is bruised lightly and a little stiff, but the healing cream she rubbed on it helped take out the swelling and numbed the pain. Unless someone looks closely, it's impossible to tell that it was ever injured to begin with.

"Yes, I do wonder on the wisdom of that," Fandral admits, scooping up the last bit of the thick porridge in his bowl onto his spoon. "How exactly _does_ dearest Prince Tjan expect sixteen people to silently shadow this creature until it leads us to it's great layer beyond?"

"Optimism?" Volstagg offers dryly.

"More like helpless arrogance." Sif mutters under her breath. "But then again, what else is new?"

Hogun sighs, "Finish up. I'll go see where Thor and his brother are." He stands before any of them can protest or agree, walking towards the stairs a moment later. He's been in a mood since they woke up this morning, so Sif can't say she's too heartbroken about seeing him go. And she feels terrible about it, but the last thing she wants is to be snipped at for everything when Prince Tjan will do a _fine_ job of fulfilling that task later.

They've all finished the meal by the time Hogun, Thor, and Loki enter the tavern. The two siblings _look_ as if they've been awake for a long time, but Sif has her doubts about that. Loki's face bares no signs of bruising, and Sif is both relieved and annoyed by that. They leave the princes to fend for themselves in the tavern as they slip out of the inn to prepare their horses.

Prince Tjan and the other Vanir warriors are huddled together with their mounts, and the sight makes her give them a long, hard stare. She'd never thought Vanir people could be so _strange_ before. It must be the effects of the Blodig Skog. Hogun isn't like this.

Will she end up like that before this is through? Haunted, pale, and sick with a madness in the brain? Babbling on about whispers and crying through the night? The soldiers haven't been here that long, have they? The effects must be quicker than she's hoping for. Will staying overnight make it worse?

How long do they have? Weeks? Days? Hours?

Sif keeps her mouth shut, and bows her head, focusing on preparing Restless for the journey. She already grabbed what equipment she'd need from the inn and is strapping it onto her mare when Thor and Loki join them in the stables.

At seeing their solemn mood, Thor smiles and says cheerfully, "Take heart, my friends! Our quest is about to take a turn for the better!"

Something inside of her privately disagrees.

000o000

The day proves about as fruitful as the others they've spent hunting. Ergo: they find nothing. A thorough inspection of the clearing she and Loki visited last night offers nothing more than a little evidence to suggest that something was _there._ A child and something else that bares footprints.

It's _something_ she supposes, but not enough.

Not enough to track the Weeping Siren down with.

Loki's single, brief attempt to use sedir to track the Weeping Siren fails because there's apparently "nothing to latch onto". Sif, despite what Loki insists, has a little more than basic understanding of sedir, and it sounds ridiculous. She doesn't say anything, letting Loki pretend he's hiding his failures.

It's weird to not start a return journey mid-way through the afternoon so they can make it to the inn before the sun sets in the distance. She's apprehensive about spending the night, honestly. The Blodig Skog is something she will be more than glad to have become a memory of the past.

That is, of course, assuming that they can _find_ the stupid Weeping Siren again. And _this_ time actually stop it before it takes another daughter or son.

When the sun has long since set in the distance, they finally set up camp. Prince Tjan is pushing them forward, past normal extremes that Thor would. Sif doesn't mind. Much. The challenge is a welcomed distraction, even if it is tedious. Sif falls asleep without much trouble, and everyone is, for once, blessedly _silent._

No moaning about the Weeping Siren coming to claim their souls.

No shushing.

No whispers about their unease _period._

Sif dreams—or at least she _thinks_ she's dreaming—that she's wandering through the woods. It's dark and she can't figure out where she's supposed to be going to get out. Everything looks the same and she's tired. Exhausted. As if she's being spelled to sleep.

There's no one else here. She keeps shouting for someone to listen to her, but there's no one.

And then she hears crunching behind her and she whirls, heart thumping in her chest widely. A tall woman is standing behind her, smiling softly. The sight of her doesn't ease the panic in Sif's chest. The woman's figure is blurred and Sif can't focus on anything distinct.

"Where do you hail from, little girl?" the woman asks.

Sif stares and bites at her tongue when _Asgard_ immediately wants to spill out. Even in her sluggish state, she knows that keeping it secret is important. Why evades her, only that she shouldn't tell the woman. "You don't need to know." She says flatly.

"Mother wants to know to help you." The woman insists, mouth twisting into an ugly frown. "Don't you want Mother to help you?"

Yes.

( _No.)_

Sif turns her back on the figure, pressing her hands over her eyes. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Just a name, dear one…" the woman calls softly, but her voice is fading. "I need to know who you are. No one ever tells me anything anymore. Vanaheim wouldn't seek aid from just anyone, would they? Just a realm, and then you can sleep. You're tired, aren't you?"

_Yes. So tired. So, so tired._

(Stop.)

"Just a realm…"

"Shut up." Sif slaps her hands over her ears. "I'm not going to tell you."

The woman's prodding continues, but Sif keeps her hands firmly planted over her ears and doesn't remove them until she wakes up to Fandral shaking her shoulder roughly. She jerks, whipping her head back to look at him confusion and blinks several times trying to get the world to focus. Her tongue feels rooted to the top of her mouth and her limbs are strangely jittery.

She doesn't even know what was so unsettling about the dream only that it _was._

"Going to sleep the morning away, are we?" Fandral questions with a raised eyebrow. Sif glares at him and pointedly glances around the still dark sky. The sun is barely beginning to wash away the stars. Given how late they went going to bed last night, this is far earlier than she wanted to be aroused.

"The sun isn't even up yet." She grumbles, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Well, our dearest Vanir Overlord Tjan _is_ , so we need to be, too. You figure out he thinks he—and the rest of us—are immune to sleep yet?" Fandral questions, releasing her so she can sit up. Sif groans softly and swipes stray hair from her face.

"That was obvious past day one." Sif promises.

Fandral smirks and nods. "True. You best be up before he finds the Mind Stone and uses it to get us _really_ going. Mindlessly droning because our only purpose in life is to fulfill his demands—"

Sif swats at him lightly with her pillow and buries laughter. "Stop it. That's not funny."

"It is a little." Fandral counters, grinning. He rushes off before she can find a comeback. Sif shakes her head fondly and finishes packing her gear, strapping it onto Restless's saddle. They eat a quick breakfast consisting mostly of their packed rations—which, loathe Sif is to admit it, aren't nearly as high as they should be. They hadn't assumed it would take this long, four, five days at the maximum. They've already been here four. If she and the others stretch, they'll have a little under two days before they should return for supplies or go hunting.

Given that Prince Tjan encourages them forward like a slave driver, Sif's going to bet they'll be hunting.

Hopefully they can get this stupid creature hunted, slain, and the children found before they've been on Vanaheim a fortnight. No need to drag this on than is strictly necessary, yes?

They don't get the creature in the next two days. They've found evidence of it at _last,_ a few footprints and whiffs of it's sedir according to Loki, but the Weeping Siren has either masked it's magic or there isn't enough for Loki to latch onto for tracking. Either way, they're _closer,_ but not close enough. It's relieving all the same.

Given a few more hours, days at the most, and this beast will be theirs.

But, as Sif suspected, their rations don't last past the third day. Well, "past" is a little too strong of a word, they're out before the evening meal. Prince Tjan has them come to a stop much earlier than normal and explains that they need to hunt, but someone needs to set up camp while they're gone.

And, thus leaves herself, Fandral, Volstagg, Hogun, and Loki in the clearing with the camping supplies as Prince Tjan, his guard, and Thor find food for the next few days. She's less than elated with this set up, but holds her tongue when Hogun kicks the back of her foot.

Instead, she helps Thor lighten the packs on his horse as Loki talks to the elder. "Thor, I think this is stupid." Loki insists, shifting his weight. Norns, he looks _angsty_ and the sight is almost amusing. Almost, because Sif can't help the apprehension in her gut insisting that splitting up is a terrible idea. Prince Tjan can't get them lost, not with the map, but that doesn't mean he can't get them killed or lose _Sif's_ party in the woods.

If this wasn't the Blodig Skog she wouldn't care.

If it wasn't _Prince Tjan_ she wouldn't care.

As it is...

Thor sighs, looking like he's pulling on every ounce of self control he contains to stop himself from shouting at his younger sibilng's paranoia. Loki's been at this for at least two minutes now, trying to convince Thor to stay behind and let Prince Tjan and his "incompentant ten idiot entourage" do the hunting.

"Brother, we ran out of food and we need to keep up our strength." Thor explains as patiently as he can, tightening a strap on his stallion's saddle. "You _know_ this."

"But why not send a smaller party? Why do _you_ have to go with Prince Tjan? Why not just send them off on their own?" Loki questions, folding his arms across his chest. "Why would he take _everyone_ and need you? Something seems off, brother."

Sif resists the urge to roll her eyes and hands Thor his sword. "Maybe it's because Thor can fly?" Sif questions with a raised eyebrow, "Or the fact that he's a good hunter. _Maybe_ it has something to do with the face that he wields one of the most powerful weapons period, or did you forget that your brother is worthy of Mjolnir?"

Loki shifts his piercing stare from the side of his brother's head to her eyes. The green is cold, but Sif doesn't draw back. "Yes, _hilarious._ " Loki says flatly.

Thor rolls his eyes and rests a hand on the younger's shoulder. "Norns, Loki, you sound like an old maiden. Or Mother. We won't go far."

"Thor, I'm serious. I don't think this is a good idea." Loki promises, jaw taut. He's repeating himself. Is he aware of that? Sif is. Thor's reassurances have eased her concern some. He wields _Mjolnir,_ he's the son of Odin, she doesn't...he'll be fine. (Won't he?)

"And I do." Thor squeezes Loki's shoulder reassuringly. It doesn't seem to help much. When the Snake Prince opens his mouth for another bout, Thor slaps a hand over it. "Loki, _stop._ We need the food, and I'd rather go along to make sure Tjan doesn't do something stupid. You know what he's like. He'd trip over his own sword if given the opportunity and the others of his party aren't much better. At least this way we know they'll come _back."_

Sif shifts, smoothing hair from Thor's stallion's mane.

Loki holds the older's stare for a long moment before his shoulders slump and he tugs his sibling's hand away from his mouth. "Fine. But _come back."_

Thor smirks patting Loki's shoulder. "When do I not?"

"You don't want me to answer that." Loki snips and takes a step back so Thor can mount his stallion. When Thor is atop the horse he gives a nod in Sif's direction, looking over their small group for a second before offering a reassuring smile and directing his stallion towards where Prince Tjan and the others are waiting.

Sif watches them until they vanish inside of the Blodig Skog's depths and tries hard not to entertain the idea that this will be the last time she sees them in a long, _long_ time.

000o000

"Did you never learn basic survival skills?"

The question is flat with annoyance, and Sif flicks her gaze up to Fandral from her position on his left. The warrior has tipped his head back, dirty blond hair falling over his eyes in a way that barely conceals his expression. The disdain is obvious.

Loki, from his position in front of the small gathering of sticks and dry plants he collected in the dark, scratches the flint and steel together again, receiving the same wheezy sparks that sputter out before hitting the tinder. The sharp movement of his wrists stops suddenly as he looks up with a scowl set on his thin, pale face.

Sif barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. Marvelous. If Fandral gets him talking, they never _will_ get this stupid fire going, and they'll freeze to death before Thor returns with the small handful of the rest of their party. She hadn't been _happy_ to do such mundane work, but setting up a few tents with Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun was nothing awful.

Loki agreed to take care for the fire.

And yet, nearly half an hour later, they are still sitting in the cold dark without anything but a few sparks of flame to show for it. She shouldn't be surprised that Loki couldn't handle something so _simple,_ but she _is._ They're all of age—barely—now, and knowing how to start a fire was something they learnt in adolescence. But of course, as it always is with the second prince, when something really _matters,_ he can't do it.

Sif sighs deeply, rubbing at the back of her scalp where her hair is beginning to pull on her head.

" _Yes,"_ Loki says icily, "I, unlike yourself, actually _bothered_ to bring something to start a fire with."

Fandral's head tilts, "And that has done so much for you, has it?"

She can't quite see Loki's expression clearly in the dark, but she's fairly certain it pinches in something nasty before his head turns back to the gathered tinder. The flint grinds against the steel again, but the sparks don't take to the wood or weeds.

"Are you pushing hard enough?" Volstagg asks, not unkindly from where he's seated across from Sif. They've all gathered around what is _supposed_ to be Loki's fire, tired.

" _Yes."_ Loki's voice has dropped in patience, which is a truly remarkable feat. He never has much to begin with in the first place, and the fact that it's thin enough to notice a difference is utterly amazing. "Amazing"? That's the best she can come up with? Norns above, she's exhausted. Her vocabulary is slipping into basic words to describe her annoyance.

"You need to get that going. We don't know what else is out there." Hogun presses, rifling through a satchel he brought with him. Sif thinks he's looking for food they missed in the earlier search this afternoon, but she really doubts he'll find anything different than their earlier unfruitful searches. 

Loki's gloved fingers fumble with the flint and steel again. Yggadrial must weep at his sorry state, and children sings sad tales of the Snake Prince's inability to do something so basic as _start a fire._

Fandral scoffs loudly and leans forward, putting his hands behind his head. "Afraid of the dark, are we?" he teases Hogun, "Worried that the Dragr are going to come out and claim your screaming soul?"

Hogun doesn't rise to the bait, as Sif expected.

"Oh, there's plenty more in the woods than the Weeping Siren," Fandral says as if Hogun is paying avid attention to him. The Vanir soldier is not, having returning to his satchel to rifle through it. "Don't go wandering out in the dark tonight, yes?"

"Don't start that," Volstagg pleads, "please. This is no time to be telling such tales without light."

Fandral laughs loudly. "So it is not _Hogan's_ flighty heart we should take care of, but the Mighty Volstagg's, then!?"

" _I'm_ more concerned over the others returning and us unable to cook our food before we can retire for the night," Sif cuts in pointedly, both as a jibe towards Loki's lack of success, and a pointed turn of the conversation before Fandral can really get Volstagg worked up. The last thing they need is for the warrior to spend the rest of the night fretting. They all need to be on their best so they can both find the Weeping Siren and its victims.

And hopefully not join the latter before this whole predicament is through.

Loki flings the flint and steel to the forest floor and mutters a profanity under his breath as he rips off his left glove with his teeth and rubs two fingers together. A spark of flame whispers on his pale, thin fingers before he flicks it into the fire. The tinder takes immediately, and Sif releases a breath of relief, shifting forward.

Lazy as Loki may be at resorting to his sedir, at least now there is a steady flame going.

Loki, still with the glove in his mouth, gathers the flint and steel. "Is it _that_ hard just to manage the traditional way?" Sif questions, lifting her frigid hands over the orange flame. It's gathering size quickly. The tinder that Loki must have spent twenty minutes looking for was good, she'll admit that grudgingly.

Loki's fist clenches, but he doesn't say anything in response, stalking off into the dark.

"Evidently so," Fandral concludes, scooting closer to the source of warmth.

"I'm just glad that it's going." Volstagg inputs with a smile, but Sif hears him mutter " _at long last"_ under his breath, and can't quite contain her smirk. Ha! _Any_ of them could have started this faster, and without resorting to sorcery. A dumb animal could have. Loki can't, as usual.

Loki returns almost a moment later, glove on his hand and expression composed. He sits down on her right, but leaves a noticeable gap between them. Sif nearly rolls her eyes at his childishness. They aren't children anymore, but she has to often wonder if Loki will ever grow out of such stupid actions. She's not going to _bite_ him if he moves closer. Loki puts distance between himself and the fire as well, as if afraid of it's warmth.

She wouldn't doubt if he was. He's all ice.

They sit in silence, the fire crackling in the dark for a long time. Longer than Sif feels comfortable with. Dusk was just beginning to paint the horizon when they started, and it's pitch black now, with a thick overcast that both seems to make it colder, and darkens the area. It's almost impossible to see beyond the light that the fire offers.

There is no wind, nor the sounds of animals in the distance.

This forest is so, _so quiet._

More minutes pass before Loki throws spare tinder into the fire and looks around them, as if prepared to stand. "They should have been back by now. You can't hunt in the dark."

"Maybe Prince Tjan just _happened_ to remember a wild type of boar that only comes out when the sun has set." Fandral mutters, blowing out a long sigh.

Worry churns in her stomach. It's been _hours._ No one gave an estimation of when they'd be back, but surely it wouldn't take them hours. Then again...the Blodig Skog seems to kill all life, including wild, so maybe they just _can't_ find any and...decided to return to Ju?

No. That's worse than Fandral's boar theory.

Loki scoffs. "Certainly. It seems like something he would remember conveniently."

"Now, now," Volstagg intrudes hesitantly, "let's not get hasty."

"Please," Loki grumbles, "you've been muttering insults of him for days now."

Sif bites at her tongue. It's one thing to _do_ so, it's another to get called out on it. She shouldn't be surprised that he noticed, but the irritation doesn't go away with the wave of her fingers. Her teeth set, and she opens her mouth to retort, but Loki looks behind them again.

"We should go look for them. I don't like this." Loki says. Fandral lifts his head up, tilting it as confused. Sif is in the half mind to agree with the Snake Prince, but she doesn't...

"We _shouldn't_ lose the camp and the supplies." Volstagg argues. "They'll come back."

"That's—" Loki starts.

"Shh." Fandral commands, lifting a hand.

Loki's jaw sets. "I—"

"No, I _mean_ it— _shh!"_ Fandral commands, rising up to his feet, hand on his sword. "Do you hear that?"

In the harsh light of the fire he looks nearly frantic. They're quiet for a moment and—nothing. Sif's lips thin and she looks up at the swordmaster. She's about to rule it off as paranoia, but a branch snaps behind her and she jerks up to her feet, hand rising to her spear. She snaps it to the full length as the others go for their weapons.

"What was that?" Volstagg breathes.

Something laughs softly, musically, and Sif whips her head in the direction of the noise. But there _isn't_ a single direction, it seems to be coming from everywhere. Much like the screams the Siren make when it took Idrissa. Almost as if—

"Loki." Sif breathes in question, barely daring to raise her voice. It's the Weeping Siren, it has to be. What else _could_ it? Loki can read magical signatures, he'd know for certain.

"I—" Loki starts, but the Weeping Siren lets out a young, girlish giggle and he snaps his jaw shut. Sif's wide eyes flick in the direction of the noise.

"Who wants to play, children _?"_ it whispers. Its voice is still the young females. "Oh, _I do!"_

The fire goes out. There's not even a gust of wind, no water, nothing to suggest it would _go_ out. It just extinguishes itself in a single puff of smoke, leaving them bathed in darkness. The clouds have never felt thicker. There's no stars, no moon, just the pitch-black of night.

And the scuffling through the wood.

"Stick together," Sif commands, lifting up her weapon. "No one runs off on their own."

"No one wants to _die_ alone either." The Weeping Siren's voice has changed to a nasally old woman's, and it's _louder._ Closer. _Norns._ "But alas…"

Sif tenses, drawing her weapon up and preparing for a defense. It's hard to make out anything but the murky shadows in the dark, but it should be enough—Loki draws in a sharp breath, cutting her away from her thoughts. "Hogun, look out!"

There's the sound of a bowstring releasing and Sif whirls as Fandral swings his sword, but they're all too late. Hogun lets out a loud cry before a body smacks against the dirt and Sif sees something dragging the Vanir warrior away.

Her stomach drops to her feet. "No! _Hogun!"_

"Come and catch me!" the Weeping Siren taunts, back to the girlish voice and Hogun lets out a loud scream that cuts off abruptly. Sif abandons common sense insisting that she plant her feet where they are and come up with a plan of attack or turn tail and book it back to Ju where they can get aid from Asgard.

Instead, she readjusts her grip on her weapon and takes off into the dark trees.

_It has Hogun._

_No, no, no._

Dozens have died by this creature's hand, and Sif refuses to let one of her best friends become the next in line for that. Hogun was just trying to find his sister. His _younger_ sister. Why are the fates so _cruel?_ He doesn't deserve death from _that._ Good deeds shouldn't be _punished!_

"Sif!" Volstagg calls out behind her. "Stop!"

"Come, _come!_ " the Weeping Siren's voice is getting fainter.

Feet pound behind her and Sif doesn't slow down, tearing through the trees in and effort to reach her shield-brother. Fandral matches her pace and she glances at him. "We can't let it take him!" she argues, "It will _kill_ Hogun!"

"How is getting ourselves lost going to help!?" Fandral demands.

It won't.

But this won't be another Idrissa. She refuses to let it be. The Weeping Siren is _not getting away._

"I'm not giving up this time!" Sif counters, pushing herself forward faster.

Fandral lets out a heaved breath, but doesn't argue further. Sif chances a quick glance behind to see Loki and Volstagg keeping pace with them. Relief pools in her stomach. She doesn't have to do this alone.

They've been whipping through the woods for about five minutes, the only clues as to Hogun's location the Weeping Siren's half-taunts and insistence that they follow. Hogun has said nothing and made no noise beyond the first and last scream.

She doesn't want to know what's keeping him silent.

They're doing fine, the pursuit making _some_ progress until Volstagg trips and slams face first into the ground, and doesn't get up. Sif pulls herself to an abrupt halt, balancing weight on the tips of her toes to keep herself from mimicking the warrior. Impatience pours through her, but she nonetheless turns around and treks back over to her shield-brother.

Loki is already there, helping Volstagg up to his feet, but freezes.

It's hard to make out facial expressions in this thick darkness, but Sif's fairly certain Loki's eyes are wide. Sif moves to Volstagg's side as Loki releases him, shifting to kneel down infront of something, tugging off a glove with one hand.

"Are you alright?" Sif questions.

Volstagg nods. "Forgive me. I didn't see— _oh."_ Volstagg draws in a deep, sharp breath as Loki lights a fire on his palm to brighten the area. Sif gasps, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth with surprise as Fandral moans through his teeth.

Volstagg tripped, but it was over one of the members of Prince Tjan's guard. Sif never really bothered to learn all of their names, but she recognizes this one on the spot because it's the captain. Yan, she thinks it was. He's dead, has been for at least a couple of hours. There's no obvious reason as to his death, but his cold, dead eyes stare up at them. He's smiling faintly.

Loki looks up at them, green eyes wide.

No one says a word.

The Snake Prince raises to his full height before clapping his hands together and drawing them apart. A glowing wispy light spreads between his hands and he tosses it like a whip. It lights up the immediate area around them better than a fire or the moon would have if they'd had access to either.

Sif sweeps her gaze around the area, her stomach sinking and she bites at the back of her hand, squeezing her eyes shut.

"So they're dead then." Volstagg says at last. "I count eight."

"Seven." Fandral mutters.

Sif doesn't want to count, but she needs to _know._ She rips her eyelids apart and scans the space. Bodies lay here, in the same state as Captain Yan. There's ten members, including the captain, in Prince Tjan's guard and there's only eight bodies here. She doesn't see the prince or Thor among the group. Four, at least, escaped or they aren't _here._

They were attacked, and now more than half of them are dead. Because of the Weeping Siren, who still has Hogun and took all of those children. The Vanir's deaths don't seem to have been violent. Almost as if they fell asleep and never woke up again.

_What is going to happen to Hogun?_

Will they find _him_ like this?

Where's Thor?

"I don't see Prince Tjan," Volstagg mutters. "Do you think he escaped?"

This wasn't that far from their camp...but _was_ it? The Blodig Skog changes the deeper someone goes, which is why they need the stupid _map._ She doesn't even know if Loki has the one King Odin let him take because they don't have their saddlebags. Or the horses. They left them with the camp that Sif honestly doesn't know what direction to travel to reach it anymore.

 _Norns._ This is her fault. If she hadn't run off...if they hadn't let the Siren take Hogun in the first place...

Loki whirls, eyes rapidly flicking across the bodies and he keeps making little shakes of his head. "I can't see Thor. Where is my brother?" Loki spins again, "Thor! _Thor!_ This isn't a game! THOR!"

Fandral slaps a hand over his mouth to quiet him. "Shut up. The Weeping Siren isn't the only thing in these woods, I wasn't joking earlier. Do you want to attract _that_ to us?"

Loki wiggles out of his grip, breath coming out fast and harsh. "I need to find my brother. I can't...I—" Loki makes a break for the woods and Sif dives for him, but only manages to brush her fingers against his arm before he's gone.

"Loki, you idiot, come back here!" Sif cries, "We need to stay together!"

He doesn't answer, vanishing into the darkness. Sif kicks the ground harshly, swearing under her breath. Wonderful. Now they've lost _both_ the princes of the Golden Realm. King Odin will have them executed before they can get two words into to explain their sons combined stupidity. Norns, do the brains they carry even _add_ to equal the common sense of _half_ of a normal Aesir?

"I'm going to kill him," Fandral seethes. "When he drags his sorry butt back here, I'm going to mount his head on my wall."

"Get in line." Sif says through gritted teeth.

"Do we go after him?" Volstagg's voice is strangely desperate, as if he's near tears. "Hogun was…"

Her fists clench and she shakes her head. "We don't have time to chase him or Thor and the others down. He'll come to his senses eventually, but we _need_ to find Hogun before the Weeping Siren kills him, too."

The two nod and they begin to hesitantly walk forward again, listening for any indication as to the Weeping Siren's location.

"Hogun!" Sif shouts into the wood. She can't hear the Weeping Siren anymore, but her voice echoes. The forest doesn't swallow it, letting it stretch on and on. Panic wraps around her rips. " _HOGUN!"_

No answer.

No taunts.

No laughter.

_Norns, please don't let him die just yet._

It takes nearly a full minute before she hears the soft voice of a woman singing. It's the most beautiful voice she's ever heard in her life as if a woman is singing her tears, but the words it voices only fills her with dread. " _You whisper and you cry, because some need to die..."_

"What is that?" Volstagg freezes in place, raising his axe.

What does he _think!?_ A choir of Vanir woman out for a stroll in the middle of a haunted forest?

"The Weeping Siren." Sif answers in a low hiss, lifting up her shield. "Stop moving, prepare for an attack."

This is their chance. If they can over power the Weeping Siren, then they can force it to take them to Hogun, the children, and the others. They'll rescue them this time. They'll _get it._ They aren't going to fail. They're going to reach the children.

Fandral lifts his sword. "Show yourself!" he calls into the woods. The singing is getting closer, carrying the melodic tune that grasps for all of Sif's senses. The longer it sings the more sluggish her mind becomes.

" _Don't mourn, don't weep, you are all so tired and now need to sleep…"_

Her limbs grow heavy, exhaustion tips at the edges of her vision. Wait—no, this isn't—it's sedir. The Weeping Siren has enchanted her words...but it doesn't...make her any less…

Tired.

Maybe...maybe...sleep wouldn't be so...

"Shut up!" she doesn't know who the voice belongs to, she thinks it's her own.

A shrill laugh cuts through the air, followed by a harsh sob. " _Shh, shh, mother is here to settle the fear, and now she has one request to make this game fair: Drop your weapons."_

The spear slips from her grip and hits the ground with a clang. The Weeping Siren moves closer, she can hear it breathing. The other's have released their weapons as well. A ragged breath escapes her in terror and she backs up towards the others.

The Siren slinks forward, swathed in a deep red dress that's fraying at the edges. Long silver hair falls over its shoulders to the waist, obscuring some of the woman's face. Or, at least, what Sif assumes is a woman. She's as tall as Sif is with an increte walking cane and smiling softly. Her skin is pale and wrinkled, giving off the impression of age, but the aura of power around her doesn't fit it.

The Siren doesn't stop until she's close enough that Sif back touches her shield-brothers. Volstagg's breaths are coming out labored, and Fandral looks a mix between tackling the Siren to the floor and turning tail and running.

The creature leans forward, smile still stretched on her lips and whispers, "Children, dear, dear, children. All alone, lost in the forest without anyone to save them."

"We're _not_ children." Sif hisses, trying to keep her voice heavy. It comes out as more of a desperate plea.

" _Hush."_ The Siren sings, and Sif's jaw snaps shut of its own accord. Her tongue is stuck against the roof of her mouth and refuses to come down.

The Siren hums, and then, "Yes. _Yes._ My dears, I think it's best if we rest. Fandr— _Ah!"_ a loud cry cuts through her throat and she tumbles onto the ground as if struck in the stomach by something. The musical melody in her voice snaps. Something feels as if it's been tugged away and her muscles release. Sif's hands still tremble even as she dives for her spear.

Fandral and Volstagg move behind her, but the Siren sits up, hand pressed around where an arrow is lodged in her gut and shrieks in a desperate melody " _stop moving!"_

Sif's muscles immediately seize and she tumbles to the ground, frozen. Panic washes up her limbs, making it hard to breathe. Sedir. There's—oh, _Norns,_ she has no idea what to do. She can't get her weapon, and she _doesn't know what the Siren wants._

Are they going to die?

This is hardly a warrior's death.

The Siren rips the arrow from her stomach and barely leans back in time to avoid a second one aimed for her face. Sif's heart leaps in her chest with relief. Someone else is out there. Maybe this isn't hopeless.

Maybe—

The Weeping Siren hisses, twisting around to look back at the darkened woods, " _Come, come, come,"_ she sings out, " _no more hiding—"_

The Siren lets out a shriek as a figure wraps an arm around her neck and tackles her face-first into the dirt. If she'd had any movement in her body, Sif's fairly certain her jaw would have dropped with surprise.

"No, no I don't think so." The figure counters.

Sif's heart is beating at her ribcage. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

Loki.

That _idiot._ What didn't he just go for help!? Any sensible person would have gone for help instead of trying to act the part of a hero. She shouldn't even be surprised, but she'd expected that he'd have the brains to realize that.

Apparently not.

"What have you done with my brother?" Loki demands harshly, "Where is Thor?"

"The sedir wielder." The Weeping Siren muses, but her tone is more angry than amused. "I _told_ Tjan to stop bringing them in here."

Wait.

_What?_

Loki looks startled, "What do you—?"

The Weeping Siren shoves him off of her, lifting a bloody hand to grab him by the throat and throw him backwards. There's a smacking sound a second later, like a body hitting something heavy and Loki lets out a pained cry. _Norns, no, no, no—_

" _Time, and time again it comes,"_ the creature sings, rolling to her feet and grabbing Fandral's sword. She advances towards them, and Sif feels her stomach drop. She's going to kill them! Oh, Norns, why did they think this would be easy? Prince Tjan has—

_Thor._

Prince Tjan was—

The Weeping Siren moves towards her and Sif's chest constricts with helpless sobs. The Weeping Siren squats down beside her and smooths her hair away from her neck, hand still gripping the sword. Her fingers are drenched in blood.

The arrow.

Loki shot her, but despite how much the blood gushes, the Siren doesn't seem to mind, only focused on singing. The words are numbing Sif's senses and making it hard to be aware of anything. The creature takes the weapon up in both hands and raises it above Sif's neck.

" _But the end was drawing near, and the children began to fear...but it was too late to stop anything. And the children began to whisper and draw in another breath, but we all knew they dreamed of dea—"_

"Wait!" Loki chokes out, and the Weeping Siren stops the swing barely an inch from Sif's neck and turns, long silver hair falling in front of her face. Sif can't see her expression anymore, and though a part of her is horrified at this; another, quieter section is relieved. She doesn't have to stare at that face any longer.

The Siren is still gripping the sword.

_Sif doesn't want to die._

Loki staggers forward into the clearing, unharmed save gashes on the left side of his face. "Spare their lives," the Snake Prince pleads, words bubbling out of him at a speed Sif has never seen him speak with before, "take mine instead. We know that you collect prey from these woods and kill the others. Let them go and take me. Kill me. Whichever would be of your choosing."

What on the Nine is he _doing!?_

_This is not a bargain he should be making!_

The Weeping Siren tilts her head, quiet. Loki takes in a ragged breath. Sif can see that his hands are steady. Fear is etched onto his face, but his hands are steady. Norns, he _really_ intends to go through with this. He's.. _.saving_...them.

At the cost of his own life.

His own freedom.

Sif had...Sif had honestly not really thought him capable of doing something so stupid. Reckless. _Selfless._

"Please," Loki's voice is barely above a breath, "I am Loki, the son of Odin. I am the second prince of Asgard. Surely I am of more value to you than a handful of soldiers. I—I can be a ransom, a tool. Take me, please, and l-let them go."

_Shut up, you idiot!_

Thor will kill them if the Weeping Siren takes his younger brother. ( _Thor. Where is he? How is he?)_

The Weeping Siren shuffles forward and a dread wraps around Sif's gut heavily. _No, no, no._ Stop moving. Don't get any closer. If she touches one hair on the Snake Prince's head—

"You are weary, my child." The Weeping Siren's natural voice is hoarse, but there's still a sweet melodic tune to it. The trepidation is only growing stronger as the Weeping Siren moves closer. Loki is leaning back a little, but it isn't helping.

Sif's muscles are still frozen despite her attempts to fight the spell. The Weeping Siren reaches out a hand to cup Loki's cheek, and Sif watches as a visible tremor race down his spine. His lips are pinched, and Sif's not breathing. What is the demon doing? Does she intend to harm him in some way? Is is some sort of spell?

_What is going on!?_

"You don't think clearly," the Weeping Siren insists. "I'm up to the challenge now, I think," she murmurs, "it is well past time I avoided this. I'll never be better if I don't. This is your—and _their—_ salvation. You will thank me."

With that stated, the Weeping Siren runs her hand up Loki's face before settling two fingers on Loki's forehead. There's the faint murmur as she says something before Loki's eyes roll back and he slumps backward, only to be caught in the arms of the Weeping Siren like a lost child.

She's taking him.

_She's actually taking him._

Sif's jaw tries to tighten in anger, but the paralysis still holds her steady. The Weeping Siren turns to face them, a smile stretched on her lips. It looks deranged among the lighting. Loki is completely lax in her arms, and Sif feels a momentary panic ripple through her.

What if he's dead?

He can't be dead!

Prince Tjan and the others found corpses in the houses of claimed children. _They_ found corpses. Perhaps the Weeping Siren intends to kill them all. _(Then why is she holding Loki like he's something precious to her?)_ Frustration pours through her, but further struggling does nothing.

The Weeping Siren stands still for another moment before her fingers tract out some sort of pattern and she smiles at them again. "Sleep, my children, all will be well." She assures, and then flicks her hands out. This isn't her song that leaves Sif numb and hazy, it rams into her gut, clawing its way towards her brain. She has two long seconds to feel the panic crash into her stomach before her body goes limp and she knows no more.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Umm...let's be optimistic and say August 16th, 23rd, or some time in-between that. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nope, own nothing.
> 
> Warnings: Some description of blood, possibly disturbing images, implied child labor (not heavily referenced).

* * *

Her head is pounding, her throat is dry, and every part of her body feels stiff and strangely disconnected from the rest of her. As if it's _hers,_ but she doesn't have the right to govern what it does. She _wants_ to. She wants to leap up, grab her sword and...solve whatever the problem is, but she can't. Everything is too heavy.

Sif can't get herself to move for a long time. She's laying on something soft, which is concerning, given her recent memories—shouldn't it be the forest floor?—but not unwelcome. Her hair is sticking to her face, and the first thing she manages to do is shake it away from her nose. Everything is so quiet. She can hear breathing, gentle humming, and her own heart, thumping inside her chest.

On and on it goes.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

The humming continues. It's luring her to sleep again, but Sif grabs at any mental breaks she can scramble for and tugs on them. She doesn't want to go under again. She needs to discover what happened to the others. The Weeping Siren put them to sleep and now she's...not where she should be anymore. Did someone find them in the woods and move them?

(Did the Siren take Loki?)

Alright. Enough lazing about. _Move._

Her finger twitches with effort, and Sif nearly grinds her teeth together in annoyance. That is not going to save anyone, _or_ help the situation. _It's movement,_ her exhausted body complains, _leave it there?_ Sif shakes it off and draws out a breath slowly.

Assess first.

There's a thin, but warm, blanket covering her frame. Her shoes are missing, leaving her toes to face the cold in only socks. Her armor is also gone, leaving her in the loose shirt and pants underneath. It's cold. Something is wrapped around her left ankle, and an experimental wiggle of the foot reveals the cold metal of a chain.

Her stomach drops.

Not a friendly, then, wherever they ended up. Marvelous. All the weapons she had hidden in her armor are missing now, so she's defenseless _and_ in a hostile building. And where on the _Nine_ is that blasted humming coming from? Can it stop? She wants to strangle it. It's making her tired and she doesn't want to be tired now.

She wants to know what's going on.

Sif lays on the bed, slowly regaining feeling in her limbs and trying to gain more data without opening her eyes, but not succeeding. The humming and quiet talking continues; the breathing doesn't change. It's not until a hand gently touches the side of her face that the cycle is broken. Sif flinches, drawing away from it with surprise and instinct insisting she do so.

The hand is dry and bony, with rough calluses and Sif's entire body tenses at the unwanted touch. "Shh," a woman's voice soothes softly, "no need for that. I know you don't sleep, daughter."

The voice makes connections with another in her head, and Sif's eyes snap open as she bodily pulls away from the Weeping Siren as much as she's able. The chain clinks, and an irrational terror races across Sif's skin.

What is she doing here?

How did she get here?

Where _is_ here?

The Weeping Siren gives a gentle smile that looks far too concerning to be reassuring with her wide, scarred lips. "Be at ease. I mean no harm."

Of course. The dead bodies in Blodig Skog are just _oozing_ evidence to back that statement.

"What on Helheim am I…?" Sif starts to question angrily, but looks at her surroundings and her voice catches in her throat. "...Doing here...?"

She's in some sort of large, dank basement. The only source of light comes from dangling lanterns lit only by candles. It doesn't offer much to see by, but enough to pick up the jist.

The room is lined with beds, a majority of them bunk. Most are pressed against the wall sideways, leaving the small figures curled underneath blankets easily visible. There must be at least a dozen beds on the wall across from her, and more on the wall she's against. The bed she's occupying is of the same design, but she can't see any evidence of an occupant on the top.

A quick glance to her left reveals Volstagg and Fandral, Fandral on the top and Volstagg the bottom, and beyond that she can see Hogun—alive, blessedly and appearing to be mostly unharmed because he's sitting up and talking to a young girl tipped over the side. His sister, Avil—and on her right is Loki. His head is wrapped and cleaned from the wound he sustained in the fight, eyes closed and he breathes in and out slowly, but Sif can see by the tenseness in his shoulders that he isn't resting.

It's a facade.

And one of the few times she _knows_ that he's doing it.

 _This_ is the Weeping Siren's abode. On the beds across from her are the missing children, if she squints into the dark hard enough she can spot Idrissa hidden beneath a blanket. All of them are here. Accounted for. Alive. And if she's guessing right, completely unharmed.

They've...been taken.

Claimed.

Sif thought that the Weeping Siren would take Loki and leave them for dead in the few seconds she'd had to contemplate their fate. This wasn't the case, and she doesn't know if this is better or worse.

The room seemed so quiet when she had her eyes closed, but now she can hear the quiet sniffles of tears, Hogun's soft baritone, the Weeping Siren's humming, and shifting bodies.

The hand touches her face again, and Sif jerks upright, grabbing the Weeping Siren's wrist. It's frail beneath her fingers. Breaking it would be easy enough. The Siren smiles gently, eyes almost encouraging her onward. Sif's tempted, very tempted, but she's not keen on seeing what the consequences would be if she did.

Think.

Exhale.

Sif doesn't let the woman go, eyes narrowing. "Don't touch me again." She barely keeps herself from snarling the words, and realizes there isn't a point being nice to their captor and releases the creature's arm with a shove.

The Weeping Siren is sitting on the edge of her bed. Sif never felt her move there, but she's pushed back only a little, despite the force of Sif's release. Her humming slowly stops, and she tips her head. "Now, now, let's not be hasty, dear one."

Sif's jaw clenches. She can feel multiple eyes on her, but doesn't dare to look away from the creature. "My name is _Sif."_ She says firmly. "If you _must_ address me, use _that."_

The Weeping Siren clicks her tongue, resting her pale hands on her lap. "So testy. That won't do, but I mustn't have expected more, given your age. You are, after all, my new challenge."

Challenge of _what?_

What is this-this _thing_ doing with all these innocents?

Why did she _take_ them here?

"You are curious." The Weeping Siren notes out loud, and Sif feels strangely exposed at the bluntness of the statement. "It is good. Curiosity...is good. Yes. Well, you need not fear, it is not my intent to harm. See—look, I cleaned the damage I made on your brother."

Wait.

Her— _what?_

The Weeping Siren points earnestly towards Loki, and Sif feels the sudden urge to laugh. Loki's eyes are opened and they catch hers for a second. A sharp retort wants to slip off her tongue, but her voice only comes out as a helpless sputtering mess. "We're-we're not—"

"Siblings." The Siren finishes, and shakes her head. "By birth, no, of course not." She leans forward as if sharing a secret with Sif. "He was Odin's son. The great king of Asgard," she giggles, and it's strangely high-pitched and much younger sounding than it should be. It reminds Sif of the forest, and her stomach clenches into a tight knot as she thinks of Thor. She doesn't see him or the others here. The Siren presses a hand against her mouth to hide a wide smile. "But now he's _mine."_

Something awful bubbles in her stomach. It fizzles like dread.

The Weeping Siren giggles again before containing herself and clearing her throat.

Sif sees Loki prop himself up on one elbow from the corner of her eye, but it's slow. Sif doesn't doubt that he has a headache or something worse given how much the wound was bleeding last night. Untreated head wounds can be dangerous. Deadly, even. What if the Weeping Siren doesn't give them the tools they need to care for it?

No—wait. Loki's been trained in the healing arts with sedir. He can heal himself without too much of a fuss...yes?

"Wh-what…" Loki's voice slurs and Sif closes her eyes exhaling softly. Head wound for certain.

"Hush!" the Weeping Siren demands and the weight shifts on the edge of her mattress. Sif rips her eyes open, catching the Siren move between her bed and Loki's only to push him back against the mattress. He slumps without much of a fight, even with how he's flinching away from their captor's hands. "You mustn't strain yourself!"

Loki gasps sharply as the woman touches at the bandages, and Sif's hands curl into fists. Her mouth opens without her consent, fully prepared for a rebuke, but Fandral beats her too it. "Hey!" his voice is hard. "Don't touch him!"

She has no idea why they're doing this.

None of them even remotely _like_ Loki.

But it's...she's rarely seen Loki this disoriented before. She's seen him worse injured, but when he gets to that state, it's usually Thor that cares for him. Not them. Loki never admits weakness, silvertongue sharp and at the ready and...it's not. Not now.

The Weeping Siren's spine tightens and she rises to her full height, stopping her fretting with Loki's bandages. She turns around slowly, eyes narrowed. "You do not decide the rules of this home." She grits between her teeth. "Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, _child."_

Sif cuts in before things can get worse, or Fandral will say something more stupid. "What do you _want_ from us?"

The Weeping Siren nods slightly, "Hmm. You need to know the answers. Listen carefully, and listen close." She lifts a finger to her lips. "No questions. No talking. I will explain, and you will only _listen."_

Sif latches her teeth together.

The Weeping Siren spreads a hand out, gesturing towards the beds. "Behold my children. You have now been blessed with joining the ranks of my family. These are your new brothers and sisters, and together, we will be happy for a long time."

... _What?_

"You will address me as 'mother', because that is what I am. Your mother. Your new one. The better one. I have never had children as old as you, but it is time. To stay where I am comfortable is to prevent evolving, and I can't have that. No. You used to belong to someone else, but now you don't. You're _mine,_ and I'll keep you safe and happy. I promise. No more failures."

The Weeping Siren's expression grows pained for a moment, and Sif shares a frantic look with Volstagg. This woman...is collecting the children because she is trying to _mother_ them? She is collecting a family of the stolen and lost.

Sif's mouth opens to ask a question, but the Weeping Siren shoots her a heavy scowl. "No _questions._ None ever. _None, none, none._ They get you killed." The Weeping Siren pats Loki's upper arm again before smiling softly. "You will feel better in the morning. You must."

Morning. Thus indicating it's still night. The night they were taken or another? Does it _matter?_ Sif doesn't have any plans of staying here any longer than she must. They need to go find Thor, and they've _found_ the missing children. Once they've beheaded the stupid Siren, their mission will be complete.

Sif shifts in the awkward position the short chain around her ankle has left her. After checking to make sure the Siren is indeed still focused on Loki, Sif reaches forward and grabs at the small looped chain. She may not have the strength of a man, but she's not weak. She's past adolescence now. A chain shouldn't be of any—

As she attempts to break the metal a staggering pain swirls into her gut, ripping through her nerves and refusing to be ignored. Sif's hands draw away from her foot, only so she can gather her hair over her shoulder and vomit. It doesn't taste right, only sweetly metallic and it takes Sif a long second to realize she was vomiting blood.

Oh.

That can't be good.

She stares at the pool with disgust and horror, flicking her gaze back towards her foot. It's numb and a second jolt shoots up the nerves. Sif vomits again, barely hearing the concerned words that her shield-brothers are asking her.

That's such a terrible taste, _augh._

Sif swallows heavily and blinks several times before she lifts a shaking hand to wipe stray blood away from her mouth. It stains her fingers deeply. Sif glances up at Volstagg and Fandral's concerned faces barely managing to draw together a reassuring smile. Inwardly, she's less calm.

If they can't break out of the chains because of _that..._ how are they going to get _out?_

"Don't do that again." The Weeping Siren grabs Sif's chin and turns her head, "Trying to escape only brings forth more blood. You—" Sif brings her bloodied fist up to slam against the Weeping Siren's face, but the creature grabs her forearm. Sif brings her other hand up and the woman lets out a little squeaked noise before grabbing her other arm. Her grip is tight enough to hurt. Sif's teeth grit and she struggles against the grip, almost freeing her left hand.

The Weeping Siren releases her right hand, but before Sif can do anything other than bring her fist in the direction she means to hit, two of the Siren's fingers touch her forehead. She whispers something under her breath and an immediate surge of exhaustion washes over her. Her eyes slip close and she slumps back, asleep.

000o000

When she wakes up, it's to someone shaking her shoulder and hissing her name. She draws away at the touch somewhat, mumbling under her breath about sleeping and murdering Prince Tjan's lack of sleeping habits under her breath when everything settles back into place. She bolts upright and barely manages to avoid colliding with Fandral's head.

"What are you doing?" Sif demands, scowling. Then it occurs to her that Fandral is standing, not chained to the bedframe and she looks up at him with wide eyes, mouth opened in question.

"It's not what you think." Fandral shoots down quickly. "Get up. The Siren is feeding breakfast and Hogun's sister says that we've apparently been asleep for three days before last night, and there's no need to go any longer without food if we want to get out."

Well, that explains why she's so hungry. _Three days?_

Sif moves and is both surprised and not when the chain doesn't restrict her. She gets to her feet, the hard stone cold beneath her toes. Her limbs feel a little wobbly and Fandral has to catch her around the shoulders to keep her from face-planting. Her face heats, but she says nothing of it.

Volstagg rests a hand on her shoulder and after a quick once over, nods to himself about the state of her health. All of the children are gathered into a collective circle, silently staring at them with wide eyes. The eldest of the bunch can't be more than Midgardian twelve and the youngest three. Her heart aches for these lost, hallowed faces.

Loki is squatted in front of one of them, Idrissa, Sif recognizes after a moment. Although first impressions appear to have been making sure the young girl was okay, she's now helping Loki clean dried blood off of his left forearm. Sif has no idea where it came from, but the source of the bleeding appears to be some sort of puncture mark.

Sif draws her gaze away from the prince with effort and looks up at Hogun when he steps into her line of sight. Avil is pulled against his side from the arm wrapped around her shoulders. Her shield-brother looks calmer than he has since before they learned of her disappearance.

"Is everyone okay?" she asks, keeping her voice quiet. She doesn't see a need, but it seems appropriate given everything else.

"As far as I can tell there's only superficial injuries." Volstagg promises. "They all appear shaken and quiet, but nothing life threatening."

"Mother wouldn't let us get hurt." Avil mumbles. Her voice is soft and thick with the Vanir accent. Sif's brow furrows in confusion at the title, before realizing that Avil doesn't mean her _birth_ mother, but this creature.

She said they were to address her as mother.

Sif would rather lick the inside of a bilge snipe's teeth. _Her_ mother is on Asgard, likely unaware of Sif's disappearance and won't be until when—not if—Thor and the others return for aid. Surely more of Asgard will be willing to help now that it is their _prince_ that is missing, yes?

 _(Are you really so hopeless that you're going to wait around for a_ rescue _?)_

Sif shakes her head, trying to focus. Hogun's teeth set, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Avil shakes her head and the rest of the children stiffen. There's a squeak of hinges before a trap door above their heads opens and a ladder made of wood and rope is thrown down towards the earth. "Come, come!" the Weeping Siren insists, "Who hungers?"

The children stand there for a long second before one of the older shoves the eldest towards the ladder. The eldest shoots her a scowl before grabbing hold of the first rail and begins to make his way up towards the surface. Sun is streaming into the basement and Sif has to squint in order to make anything out. With reluctance, the children begin to make their way up towards the surface.

Sif stares at the ladder for a long second before looking at Avil. "What happens if you don't go up?"

The girl's eyes widen and she draws in closer to her brother. "Then Mother comes down...and she makes you go up anyway. Hogun, please, let's go. I don't want her to get cross with you." She tugs on Hogun's hand and he follows, holding their stare for a long moment.

Sif lets her feet linger where they are before sighing deeply and moves forward. Hogun and Avil go up the ladder first, the younger practically pulling her sibling up the entire way. It's an unusual show of affection for Vanaheim. They aren't typically this...openly affectionate. Given the circumstances, Sif doesn't exactly blame anyone.

Most of the younger children were assisted by the elder, but there's an odd number of them and Sif spots Loki pulling the youngest up on his back. Her stomach churns with discomfort and she steps in front of the second prince. "Loki," she murmurs softly.

He stares at her, gaze hard.

"Loki, let me. You're exhausted." Sif says and reaches up for the child, but Loki's grip tightens.

"And you were vomiting blood." His tone is acidic, "I'm capable of doing something without your help, my lady." He grabs at the ladder and quickly rises, only adjusting the young girl on his back once. Well, _fine._ She was just trying to help.

Sif grits her teeth, but she, Fandral, and Volstagg get the other children up first before making their way up themselves. The ladder is a lot longer than Sif first expected. They are far deeper beneath the surface than she first thought.

The trap door doesn't open into a house like Sif first expected. Instead, it's some sort of field. The grass is yellowing, but near the middle of her calves in height. There's trees around the edges, surrounding the field like a thick wall. Past a small stream splitting the open space in half is what Sif suspects is growing produce, but she's not certain.

Behind her the field extends, but towards the edge is a small cottage. It's old, and barely maintained enough to be standing. The sky is thick with dark overcast and Sif's lips press together. It's going to rain soon, she suspects, and it won't be a light rainstorm.

Hopefully they won't be out in the open when the heavens decide to release their fury.

There's two wooden tables set up, one of which is packed with the kids. The other is mostly empty. The Weeping Siren, standing in front of some sort of counter, beckons her forward with a wide smile. It stretches far too wide and Sif is once again struck by how unsettling this-this _thing_ is. She says nothing as she, Fandral, and Volstagg move forward. Hogun is already sitting at the less-full table, next to his younger sister.

The Weeping Siren hands each of them a bowl of watery oatmeal and directs them to sit. Sif does so, putting herself at the edge of the table. Fandral and Volstagg sit across from her, eyes rapidly scanning over the area. Sif knows that they're doing much the same as her: how far can they make it if they ran?

Which direction would they need to go to get out of the woods?

How many people could they get out in the process?

It's a big field, but Sif could probably break the distance in under three minutes if she sprinted.

She barely touches at the rapidly cooling oatmeal, stirring the spoon through the substance again and again. Sif should be hungry, she knows that, but the adrenaline rushing through her veins insists that there are more important things to worry over than food.

The Weeping Siren doesn't leave them, moving towards the other table once everyone has been given some of the food and chatting with a lively tone that none of the children match. The woman seems so insistent that they all be happy here, but doesn't actually _see_ how miserable her captives are. It sickens Sif.

Sif parts her lips with effort and looks at the others. "What direction do you think we'd need to go?" There isn't a need for clarification. What else would she be talking about?

"I'm not sure." Volstagg sighs. "Without the suns I'm at a loss for direction. I'm regretting my lack of venturing to Vanaheim. Maybe going past the house...?"

Fandral shakes his head. "It shouldn't be guesswork. Going deeper into the Blodig Skog won't be helpful to anyone. Maybe...we'd need to ask around. Maybe someone knows the direction the Weeping Siren comes from when she leaves and exits."

Sif sighs miserably, burying her head into her hands. "I doubt it."

"Well, maybe—" Volstagg starts optimistically, but stops when Loki slams an empty bowl on the tabletop next to Sif's arm. She barely represses a jump and they all look up at him. The Snake Prince's lips are thinned, but he parts them with some effort.

"You can stop planning how to get out of here." Loki promises. "At least through running for the Blodig Skog."

Sif folds her arms across her chest, trying to hold at the frayed edges of her patience. "And _why,_ pray tell, would that be?"

Loki sighs and sits down next to her, subtly pointing up towards the sky. "Look."

Sif does, and sees nothing but the clouds. Fandral hums, unimpressed. "Yes, there's rain coming, but that's really not what—"

"No." Loki shoots down before he continues. "Look _harder._ Tell me when the last time you saw clouds tinted yellow was."

Sif squints, and after some focusing, she can make out the faint glimmer of yellow against the sky. It's so out of place that she can't believe she missed it. Sif follows the yellowish tint down from the sky to among the trees and sees it settle against the ground before the woods begin. The entire clearing is covered with it.

Some sort of magical barrier. She's seen similar sights in Asgard before. Even on the battlefield.

Sif rubs at her forehead, "What does it mean?" she can make _guesses,_ but any distinct answer evades her.

Loki looks away from the barrier and is quiet for a second. "I'm not certain. I...my _conjecture_ is that it's meant to keep other people out and us—" he gestures vaguely "—within. I know that we can't leave with it, I asked a few of the children before the Siren finished dishing. The older ones have tried. Said it felt like glass."

"Which means it can be shattered, yes?" Volstagg asks hopefully.

Loki shakes his head. "No, it means that the Siren is a powerful enough sedir wielder to create an actual physical _wall._ All this indicates is that the barrier is almost impenetrable. Trust me."

Sif sours, dropping the spoon into the bowl with attitude and growls between her teeth. " _Marvelous._ How are we going to get the children out now? Will we have to wait around until a _rescue?"_

"I don't know." Loki snips, "Would it be so terrible a wound to your pride for that to be the case?"

Sif slams her hand on the table top, a sharp retort on her tongue, but is stopped when Volstagg says in an almost pointed mediation. "What do you mean 'almost impenetrable'? Is there a chance that we could break through?"

Loki pulls his gaze from hers with effort, "Maybe. If I had—if it…" his words stumble over themselves, and Sif stares at him, suddenly aware of how _strange_ it is for this to happen. "If I had access to my—"

"Children, why do we care to discuss this?" a hand drops on her shoulder and Loki's. Sif and the Snake Prince jolt, turning to look at the woman with wide eyes. That plastic smile is still on her lips, but there's a heavy anger in her eyes. Sif finds something within her recoil at the sight, though she can't determine why.

The Weeping Siren's head tilts. "Are we not going to be happy here together?"

"I have my reservations." Fandral mutters.

The hand tightens and Sif winces, attempting to draw her hand away from the woman's grip without much success. After a moment, the Weeping Siren draws her hands away and laughs softly. "Well, then, let us settle them. Get up. We have work to do."

000o000

Work, as it turns out, has nothing to do with drinking memory wiping potions or torture, as Sif first expected. She's a little embarrassed that she'd immediately jumped to that, but what else was she supposed to be thinking? That the Weeping Siren was going to offer sweets?

She, the others, and a few of the older children are shuffled off towards the suspected farm. It is indeed an abundance of plants and a few animals (Sif's chest aches when she thinks of Restless, left in the woods by herself, but there's no time for that). The Weeping Siren shows them where to cut and how to accomplish the tasks with wide smiles of praise and far too much physical affection for Sif's preference.

"It teaches responsibility." The Siren insists when Hogun questions the point of this. "Good children are responsible."

Sif's not stupid. In the twisted, warped part of this creature's mind, that may be the case. In reality: working with the weeds, barely, wheat, and other types of grains and fruit keeps them too preoccupied mentally and exhausted physically to do much good on escape plans. The other children too young to help with farming, which is a little less than six, the Weeping Siren appears to try and play some sort of game with, but it's hard to see from so far away. No one but the Siren seems excited about it.

She really thinks she's mothering them, and it sickens Sif slightly.

This is captivity.

And she has no idea why the Siren is so insistent about this "family". What _happened_ to the woman to drive her to madness like this?

Sif keeps an eye on the rest of the group where she can, and learns a few of the other children's names. The eldest is a son called Li, and was the first victim of the Siren's calls. The second eldest is a daughter called Shii, and the third another daughter named Mona. All of them have been here for years and seem hollow, almost dead save the motions of their hands. They don't smile. Don't laugh. They remind Sif eerily of Prince Tjan's haunted eyes.

Sif half expects Loki to make a magical attempt at escaping, but he doesn't. Only focuses on his tasks and catches her eye every so often as if checking to make sure she's still here. Where else would she _go_ if they can't leave?

The Weeping Siren calls them back for a quiet dinner and then shuffles them all back inside of the basement. Sif collapses against the mattress with gratitude, limbs aching and fingers sore from gripping so much fine grain all day. Her feet hurt from walking through the rocks without shoes, and they're bloody and blistered, much like everyone else.

The Weeping Siren locks the cuffs onto their feet and tells some sort of story as she does so, probably trying to lure the younger children to sleep. It's a popular Vanir folklore about a baker who accidentally feeds a lizard into a dragon and has to slay his beloved pet before it eats all the bread of Vanaheim. It's meant to be humorous, but told in the Weeping Siren's nasal voice it sounds like a horror.

Sif falls asleep anyway, much to her embarrassment.

It's not a deep sleep, and she jerks awake to the sound of someone crying. It's not the soft sounds of despair, but agonized wails and her body tenses before heated anger seers through her. It's followed by a brief flash of blinding panic, and Sif jerks up into a sitting position. The blanket tumbles onto her lap, but she pays it no mind swiveling her head in the direction of the noise.

Sif breathes out sharply when she identifies it.

The Weeping Siren is sitting beside Loki, one hand pressed against his head, running her fingers through his hair as if trying to soothe as the other injects something into his arm through a needle. The veins of Loki's wrists are fading in and out with glows and desperate, muffled sobs are escaping his throat. The Weeping Siren keeps making cooing noises of encouragement: "Almost there, my son, look at how brave you're being...nearly…"

Sif's stomach drops and anger soars through her.

"Hey!" she shouts, and starts to move off the bed to throw the Weeping Siren away from her prince, but the chain around her ankle rattles before she can make much progress. She nearly tumbles off the bed instead.

The Weeping Siren stops and looks up at her, head tilted. "Daughter?"

"Don't—" Sif starts and stops because correction doesn't matter. Loki is crying in pain. _The Weeping Siren is making him cry because of pain._ "What on the Nine do you think you're _doing!?"_

The Weeping Siren smiles knowingly, and pushes against the needle harder. Loki inhales sharply and the glow of his veins comes to a sudden halt. The loss if it is almost startling. Sedir does that. Whatever the Weeping Siren did, it affected Loki's sedir.

Sif suddenly remembers Idrissa helping wipe dried blood away from Loki's forearm this morning. In the midst of everything else, she hadn't realized what it was. Now she knows. Whatever _this_ is, it was done to Loki when she was asleep last night as well. If she had to bargain a guess, she'd say Aetheitin. It's a type of drug with Muspelheim roots to stop the chemicals sedir relies on in blood to bond with sedir's. It can cripple even the most powerful of sorcerers, but it's extremely painful.

And the Weeping Siren just put _that_ in Loki's blood.

She's drugging him.

The Weeping Siren smooths sweaty hair away from Loki's forehead, pulling the needle from his arm. The Snake Prince's entire posture is stiff and he follows her hand as if afraid it will burn him. Sif feels a wave of disgust wash over her. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it, son?" the Siren questions, that smile still on her lips.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut and parts his lips with what looks like effort. Sif half expects him to say something, most likely nasty, but Loki only leans over the side of the mattress and vomits. The Weeping Siren's tongue clicks as Loki expels himself, and Sif watches with a dazed sort of horror.

_What did the Siren do?_

What _was_ in that needle?

When Loki has moved onto dry heaving and coughing weakly, the Siren waves her hand and vanishes the vomit without any trouble. Loki's trembling, and the Siren guides him back to the mattress. "The first few are always the worst, son, it will get easier from here."

She leans forward, as if to press a kiss against his brow, but Loki's hand shoots out and he grabs her around the neck. The Weeping Siren stops, but doesn't seem at all fazed by this. Maybe a little annoyed, but not _frightened._ Not like she should be.

Loki's arm is shaking. Sif quietly pleads with him to finish the job, squeezing her eyes shut and resisting the urge to grab at her hair. She feels so _helpless,_ and she hates this.

"Now, son," the Siren says in a reprimanding tone, "do you really want to do that? Who will care for you if you kill me? Who will care for your friends? No one knows where you are, and you are all stuck here. You can't leave, and you're smart enough to know that now. You _need_ me."

Sif's stomach drops with dawning horror as the realizes the Siren is _right._ If they kill her now, chained to these beds without food or knowledge of their location, they'll die of malnutrition first. If they want to live, they _can't_ just lop of her head and be done with it.

Loki still holds her.

Sif breathes in and out before the second prince releases her neck, and a shudder washes over him. "I hate you," Loki whispers. His voice is barely above a rasp. He pulls his hands close to his chest and rubs at his forearms as if they ache. Sif doesn't doubt that they do.

 _Aetheitin._ It's only used for extreme cases of _criminals._ Not one of Asgard's _princes._

"You won't some day." The Siren promises. "I am a good mother. I care for my children and they will care for me. You'll see."

Sif doesn't want to. The Siren rises to her feet and drapes the blanket up to Loki's shoulders, touching his forehead with two fingers. He immediately slumps, forced into sleep. Sif wishes the Siren hadn't, she doesn't know if Loki is _well._ The creature then she turns to Sif and smiles softly. "Daughter, you are exhausted. Rest."

"What did you do to him?" she demands. Her voice is quieter than she meant for it to be. She wanted to shout, but it sounds barely above a harsh whisper. "Was that Aetheitin?"

The Weeping Siren pauses, gathering the needle and then turns back to her. "It was. It's for the best. He carries more strength that even he knows, and if he leaves us, how will we be happy together?"

Sif snorts with disbelief, but clenches her fists. "You'll kill him. You _are_ killing him. Aetheitin isn't meant for long term use, everyone knows that. You're _going_ to kill him, and I won't let you do that. He's _my_ prince, you rotting creature from Helheim. I hope that when your soul is claimed they drag to the deepest pits and wrench out your heart with small hooks to eat you—"

"Sleep." The Siren's fingers brush her forehead and Sif's body slumps, her mind escaping away into the fields of rest.

000o000

The next day goes much as the first. They wake up, they gather to eat a brief meal of a substance that has no taste, the Weeping Siren will send them to work and they return for another brief meal before being sent to bed. Immediate answers of escape don't come easily, and don't seem to _come._ They're given weapons to cut the grain with, but they're so blunt that they're hardly anything above pieces of metal attached to a handle.

They can't kill the Weeping Siren without a way from the forest, they can't _leave_ the stupid field in the first place without killing the Siren, Loki can't try and break the dome because of the Aetheitin, and even if they did get out, they _need_ to take the children with them. There's so many factors at play here, so many things that could go wrong or not work at all.

So they just sit here.

For six more days.

_Six._

Sif's going mad. She hates doing nothing, she hates that it's all they _can_ do until a solution presents itself or rescue arrives. Life has become a well established routine now, and not one that Sif would have chosen for herself. At least the Weeping Siren hasn't attempted to kill them yet (man handle them or offer the occasional strike, yes), but who knows if that will change or not. She hates that there are so many unknowns.

It's barely past midday on day six since their capture when a loud clap of thunder ripples through the air. Sif pauses the knife she's been sawing back and forth across several stalks of wheat to look up at the sky and scowl.

Well, the rain has held for days now, it was to be expected at some point.

Fandral, on her left, releases a loud sigh. "Do you think that it will be any easier to cut when wet?" he asks, gesturing vaguely towards the wheat. Sif shakes her head, scowling into the plant and beginning to saw again.

"I doubt it." She grumbles.

"Well, hold onto hope." Fandral encourages.

The rain starts shortly after, and hasn't stopped before they're collected to return to the basement. Sif is in a foul mood and soaking wet without a change of clothing or a towel to dry herself off with. The Weeping Siren doesn't seem to care, sending them off. Sif soaks the blanket.

When she wakes up the next morning, Hogun is harshly calling her name. Sif sits up tiredly, vision blurred. Her nose is running and her throat is slightly sore, but not enough to be anything above mildly annoying. Hogun's eyebrows are pinched together and, as it has been every morning, the chain is unlocked.

"What's wrong?" Sif questions, hobbling to her feet. Loki and Volstagg are standing beside the bed Fandral has been assigned and talking in quiet, but clearly panicked tones. Her stomach coils with dread and she moves forward around Hogun.

Fandral is laying on the bed, face pale and eyes closed. He looks—Sif shakes the thought off, trying to see if she can see his chest rising.

"The rain." Hogun explains, "So much exposure and lack of nutrients...Sif, we can't get Fandral to wake up."

Sif's hands still and she notices for the first time the children who are gathered in a tight cluster and watching them with wide eyes. She turns back to her blond shield-brother and then grabs Hogun's arm. "... _What?"_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the delay, guys. I really do mean to be posting these faster. Promise. I'm just...is it possible to refund mental illnesses? Like, I didn't even order one and I got multiple. :/ Finding motivation to write has been very hard as of late. Please know that I have GREATLY appreciated your reviews. It's been awesome to hear your thoughts and speculation. Thank you, thank you. You're all amazing, please don't forget that. ;)
> 
> Next chapter: September 6th, possibly sooner. Thanks again, see you chapter 5! ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey! Welcome to September, my stars! Feeling like a half-dead sloth, but I am alive! Thank you so much for your encouragement! You're all amazing. :) Lots of love and hugs to all of you! ;D
> 
> Warnings: some violence, physiological torture, mild torture, potentially disturbing elements.

* * *

Sif's heart won't beat right inside her chest. It feels like it might stop at any given opportunity, and she has to clench her teeth together to keep herself calm. Her fingers are going numb from how hard she's grabbing at Hogun, but she can't stop.

This has to be some sort of awful dream.

It can't be reality.

It _can't be._

"Tell me you're jesting." Sif pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn't know why they would pull a jest like this. At least, not during _this._ This is no time for games. No time for pretending things aren't serious. Fandral could be dying.

Hogun shakes his head.

Sif exhales stiffly.

She moves to the swordmaster and stuffs two of her fingers up against his neck. His skin is hot to the touch, an indicator of fever. Not good. Her lips thin and she tries to feel for a pulse, but her hands are shaking too much. She flexes her forearm muscle almost to the point of pain before she can get them to steady enough.

Breathless, she waits.

_Thump...thump...thud…_

It's slow and uneven, but there. He's alive. He's breathing. He's alive. Sif thinks she could sob with relief, but holds herself together. This isn't the time to break down. They have more important things to do than put her together after a fit.

"I don't…" she swallows the words, and then forces them out because she _has_ to. "I don't know...what to do. He's alive, but I don't…"

She has basic medical training, as all members of Asgard's army do. Field dressing. This is different. She was never taught how to care for illness in a life or death situation. Never taught how to do much else than care for a basic fever. And _that's_ only with the right equipment. They don't have any of that here. Their bags were taken when the Weeping Siren claimed them.

Sif doesn't...she has no idea how to take the initiative here. For as long as Sif can remember, even when they were children, whenever Thor wasn't able to be in charge, she was always the second in command. Even despite her age. She's always taken the role of leader and drawn the Warriors Three together—and occasionally Loki—and gotten them to work as one unit.

She doesn't know what to do.

She feels utterly helpless.

"We need to get his fever down," Loki says and takes a slight step forward, reaching for Fandral's forehead, "does anyone have any spare water?"

No. She hasn't had free access to water since before they were claimed. ( _What do they do? What do they do? What do they—?)_

No one answers vocally, but it seems to be enough of an answer for the second prince. Loki gently, but firmly, pulls her away from Fandral so he can feel for his pulse. Sif remembers abruptly that Loki was trained in the art of healing and thinks she might weep with relief. Loki may not have proper supplies, but he's good at improvisation. He won't let Fandral die.

Sif waits with baited breath as Loki runs a few more tests. Then, he looks up at them. "His lymph nodes are swollen and he's not breathing deep enough. An infection of the lung, I'd guess."

A swear escapes her lips softly.

What are they to do about _that?_

"Is he going to die?" Idrissa asks. Sif whirls. The children. There's children here. In the midst of everything else, she'd forgotten. They're huddled together with wide eyes, their hollowed faces making them look like skeletal ghosts. Sif wonders if she looks that sick, and decides that it's probably unavoidable.

She shares a frantic glance with Volstagg and Hogun.

"He's just a bit sick, is all." Volstagg is quick to promise, drawing up a smile that looks too stretched to be authentic. Even the youngest in the group don't seem to believe it. Sif doesn't blame them, and hates that she feels much the same. Forcing in a deep breath, she turns back to the Snake Prince.

"What can be done?" she questions.

Loki gives a slight shake of his head and waves her forward. Sif hesitates for a moment before moving and Loki leans down to whisper in a barely audible tone, "Without my sedir, I can't…" he trails, stops, grits his teeth and then continues, "we need a healer. Without access to water or even the most basic medical supplies, Fandral is going to die. I'd give him a few days if we're lucky."

_Lucky?_

They can't base the survival of their shield-brother on _luck!_

Sif's teeth set, worry gnawing at her bones. "Loki," she whispers, and has to remind herself to keep her voice quiet for the sake of the children behind her. "Loki, there must be something…"

Loki shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sif. I…"

"What about escape?" Sif questions desperately, still in that hushed tone. "I've been looking, but found nothing. If we could get him to Ju, we might be able to intercept Prince Tjan's party, perhaps run into Thor. Or Heimdall. We could get him to Asgard after that."

Sif's voice is desperate. She stops, breathes, and then realizes that this the Blodig Skog. Escape would be trivial. "We have nowhere to go even if we do get out," she barely bites back a moan of despair, "we don't have a map. Norns, Fandral's going to die here."

This can't be real. Someone has to tell her she's dreaming. She'd expected her comrades to fall in battle, herself a wound away from joining them. Never, even in her wildest fantasies, had she predicted _this_ to be their end. This is not a warrior's death. It is the death of a victim, unable to help themselves.

Loki's expression furrows and he gnaws at his lower lip before whispering, "Not...not necessarily."

Sif stops, and then looks up at him. "What?"

The second prince is quiet for a moment longer, and Sif manages to pick up the edges of conversation between Hogun, Volstagg, and the worried children behind her. It hardly seems to matter. Her gaze is locked onto Loki's pale, sickly face.

"About the map," Loki murmurs, "I still have the one I stole from my father before we left."

She casts her mind back, barely managing to pick the conversation out. It feels foggy, overshadowed by the mess that happened between then and now. It feels like so long ago. Had it really been less than a month? It must have been longer. (It hasn't been. Unless she's lost the ability to keep track of time.)

Sif's nails dig into her palms. "You said he let you borrow it." She hisses.

Loki winces, eyes closing briefly and he shakes his head. "I lied."

Had it been a few weeks ago, she doesn't think she would have been surprised. She would have scoffed, _of course you did,_ and then refused to speak with him. They don't have time for such childishness, not with Fandral's survival on the line. The warrior is her priority right now, and if Loki wasn't honest with them, what does it matter?

Still, though, " _Why?"_ the word tears from her throat before she can stop it.

"Thor asked to borrow it from our father, but when he couldn't procure it I...took matters into my own hands. It is what it is, and not important right now. I have it stored in a cache, if I could get access to my sedir for a few minutes, I should—"

The trapdoor to the ceiling opens, metal grinding and releasing a high-pitched wailing noise. All of them freeze, turning to look in the direction and Sif feels her stomach tightening with knots of dread. The Weeping Siren. It's morning, isn't it? That's why they were able to leave the beds. How they learned Fandral is sick in the first place.

The creature has returned to claim them for the day.

Rain splatters down onto the hard rock before the ladder Sif has come to yearn for and hate is dropped down to them. The heavens still pour down on top of them, then. Sif had privately hoped the creature's dome would repel the droplets, but it hasn't, and Sif suspects it won't.

Her throat burns, apprehension locking her limbs.

The Weeping Siren drops to the floor in a low crouch, silver hair soaked and clumping together, making her appearance more haggard and disturbing. Sif stands her ground in front of Fandral; if worst comes to worst, she will defend her shield-brother with her life. She doesn't know what the Siren does with those who are ailing.

(Did she hear Loki's confession about the map? Will she force it from him?)

"The skies still cry," the Weeping Siren notes, musical lip in her tone. "They have been unhappy for many, many days now."

No one answers her. The Weeping Siren seems to have expected this, because she isn't upset. Instead she sweeps her gaze across their gathered groups and tilts her head, "What are we doing, my darlings?"

More silence.

"Mother wants to understand, my dearests, but I can't if you don't explain." The Weeping Siren presses. Her eyes narrow and the room seems to drop in temperature. Sif's sure she's imagining it, that her frightened mind is adding to her fear, but Li—the eldest child—jumps forward and grabs at the Weeping Siren's arm.

"Mother, _Mother_ —" Sif flinches at how desperate the boy's tone is, how little thought he places in plastering the title onto her "—don't be angry. Please. The older one is sick with fever. They fear he is dying."

The Weeping Siren's head raises, sharp gaze barreling through Sif as if she can read everything she needs to from Fandral despite the person in the way. The woman turns her attention back to Li for a brief moment to gently caress his cheek. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it, my son?"

"No, Mother." Li agrees, his face pale and haunted.

The Weeping Siren gently pulls him away to shove him towards the others and moves with purpose towards Fandral's prone form. Sif tightens, prepared to fight, but Loki grabs her shoulder and shakes his head in warning. She wants to shove him off and tackle the creature to the floor, beating the thing until she agrees to leave Fandral alone, but she's half a second too late in her dithering.

The creature shoves past the two of them easily, standing in front of Fandral for a long moment, glassy eyes sweeping up and down him. She hums almost contemplatively, and then reaches a hand out to touch Fandral's forehead.

" _Wake up little bird, you miss the sun."_ She sings softly. The words hold weight, and Fandral's eyes tear open, the swordmaster shoving upwards. He draws in a deep, heaved gasp before coughing sharply and moaning.

He looks wretched, but Sif only manages to find relief in the fact that he's _moving._ He's alive. Awake. That's all that matters right now, isn't it?

"You all worry for nothing, silly little children," the Weeping Siren clicks her tongue and reaches forward, grabbing Fandral by his upper arm. "He sleeps to avoid work, and avoiding work is something we musn't avoid because punishment must be delved out."

The Weeping Siren hauls Fandral from the bed and he can't stand upright. He tumbles, disoriented and makes a weak plead Sif can't pick out distinct syllables for.

"Mother!" several children protest, beginning at first with frantic calls and then moving to wails. None of them move to offer assistance, but Sif finally manages to find her footing. She moves after the Siren and grabs the woman's shoulder.

"Stop this!" she commands. "Fandral is in no state to _move_ let alone—whatever it is you're planning. He's _not well,_ you demon! Let him go!" Her fists tighten, and Sif has to grind her teeth together to stop herself from tackling the Siren all together. It won't help Fandral if she does that.

The Weeping Siren smiles, but it feels more like she's baring her teeth. "I am the mother. I decide when my children are fit for work, and you do not. Trust my judgement, daughter."

"I can't…" Fandral whispers, hand pressed against the left side of his chest. He looks up with wide eyes, coughing. "I can'... _breathe."_

A new wave of panic washes over her. "You have to let him go!"

"He must work." The Weeping Siren insists, "If he does not want to be punished, he must work. It is the way of things."

Hogun releases a swear under his breath not fit for the age of their audience, and Volstagg cries, "That's an outrage!" behind her.

Fandral coughs several more times, spitting up blood. The Weeping Siren can't be serious. She can't be planning to drag Fandral out into the rain again and make the infection worse! The only thing that will happen is Fandral's _death,_ punishment aside. Fandral needs rest. He needs medicine, and he _needs to visit Asgard's healers._

"He must rest." Sif pleads. "Let him go, if you are so caring a mother, why will you not let him rest?"

The Weeping Siren's eyes narrow and her face grows hard edges. Sif feels as though she's crossed a line she should not have, but doesn't have the energy to care. Her head is spinning. She has to get Fandral to safety so he can breathe again. The Weeping Siren still clutches his arm in a vice-like grip.

"The punishment—" Loki starts, voice soft, but strangely commanding all at once, "—it is delved out if he doesn't do the work?"

"That is correct." The Weeping Siren agrees, bobbing her head up and down with a pleased smile. "You see, he understands—"

"Let me take it." Loki interrupts, and the room goes quiet. Sif lifts her wide eyes from her shield-brother to Loki, wondering if she heard that right. "Let me take it," Loki repeats, voice filled with more conviction. "Allow him the rest, and I will take whatever is needed so he can."

"Loki," Sif hisses under her breath, trying to breathe sense into him with her single, harsh word.

The Weeping Siren begins to shake her head, lips turned down, and Loki takes a further step forward, hands lifted as if trying to calm a wild beast. Given what this _is_ though, the analogy may not be too far off. "No—listen to reason, he can't do anything right now," Loki's words are even, careful—Norns this is the first time she has ever wanted to weep with gratitude at the existence of his silvertongue—"it would be better for him to rest."

"But—"

"Mother—" Sif's lips part with surprise as the word falls out of her prince's mouth. Her gut tightens with a sting of betrayal on the All-Mother's part, "—please, there is no need for this. Let him rest. It will be balanced, then, yes? He rests, and I suffer for him?"

The Weeping Siren is contemplative for a moment longer before giving a slight nod. She releases Fandral and Sif moves to catch him before he can crumple forward completely on the ground. Realization at what has just been bargained strikes her, and she looks up towards the creature, "Wait—let me share the burden with Loki. I can—"

"No," the Weeping Siren shakes her head, pressing a finger to her lips, "shh. We don't punish everyone for the mistake of one. He has made his choice. Fandral rests and he will not."

"You can't—"

"Shh, daughter." The Weeping Siren's words are heavy, and Sif feels her lips press together without her support for the action. Spells. She didn't realize how heavily sedir could be intertwined with words, but now she is more aware than she ever wanted to be.

She holds Fandral close, keeping him upright so he can take in heaving gasps and looks up towards Loki. The Snake Prince refuses to meet her eyes, jaw set, eyes turned up. His fists are clenched and in the pale light from the clouded sky Sif realizes how sick he looks. He bares the face of the other children, tired, worn and hungry.

They must all share the same face now.

The Weeping Siren claps her hands together, looking jovial and it sickens Sif. "Well, children, we have no time to sit still. There is things to finish, so much to do. Come, come, who is hungry?"

000o000

Sif keeps waiting the entire day for the Weeping Siren to grab Loki by his hair and drag him off to some sort of torture chamber, but it doesn't happen. Loki isn't allowed breakfast, but it isn't filling in the first place. Sif thinks of the watery oats she barely managed to swallow this morning, and they churn in her gut. They had to leave Fandral behind, alone.

Sif sees the Siren make several trips to the cellar several times throughout the day, but she isn't allowed any further updates on the swordmaster when she asks or attempts to see for herself. Sif keeps herself rooted firmly to Loki's side as much as she can without being obvious about it, preparing for the torture chamber.

The rain falls, pattering against their clothing and skin, refusing to relent. Down and down it goes, as if the sky weeps for their plight. (A part of her wonders if this is Thor's doing, and she hates how much hope twists in her gut in her that this is the case).

Sif keeps her blade gripped hard, turning to look at Loki who is chopping at the long stalks of the seemingly never-ending field. Sif doesn't even know what the creature does with all this wheat. From what Sif's seen, the demon doesn't use it unless she somehow transforms it into oats. Maybe she sells it. Sif doesn't really care to contemplate it, save to hope that the Weeping Siren won't find any buyers for her soggy mess of weeds.

"You have the map, though?" Sif presses, when they're more isolated, and Loki looks up towards her. He gives a slight nod.

"My sedir does," he mumbles, "but I can't reach anything with the Aetheitin...and…"

"Does it hurt?" Sif questions, and suddenly realizes how insensitive the question was when Loki's shoulders tense. The second prince pauses for a moment before giving a slight nod. His hesitation makes it seem as if he expects to be reprimanded for his answer.

"Like a bruise. Sometimes I can focus on nothing else." Loki mutters. Apparently desiring to switch topics as fast as possible before Sif can further this line of inquiry, he fumbles out, "But without a way out of the dome, it's pointless. We'd need somewhere that the Siren wouldn't be aware of to cover, but there's nothing here but open field."

Sif sighs, "So we're still trapped? Even with a way to navigate?"

"Yes." Loki answers. Both of them return to the wheat, trying to pretend that the weight of this doesn't feel like they're being crushed. Still stuck. Still trapped. Still helpless maidens waiting for the rescue Sif is beginning to suspect won't happen for a long, _long_ time.

000o000

The Weeping Siren gathers them for dinner, and hands out some sort of dish Sif suspects is fish from the river separating the two halves of the field. Sif has never been a fan of fish, not in the way she knows her parents are, but she dives into the food with a vigor she can't repress. She's almost embarrassed, but she's exhausted and her body _demands_ substance for the energy she's expended.

Loki is again not allowed the food.

Sif hates eating in front of him, knowing he is not allowed, but when Volstagg had attempted to share the watery goop this morning with him the Weeping Siren had struck the warrior hard enough that the mark still lingers by the evening meal.

It serves as a warning, and Sif hates that it's almost enough to stop her.

She keeps waiting for the Weeping Siren to turn her back so she can slip Loki _something—_ the prince has always been good at sleight of hand, this will be nothing to him—but the creature never does. She sits at the table Loki's hunched over at and strikes up a conversation Sif does her best to ignore.

"Stop waiting." Avil murmurs after some time when Sif has stopped biting into her food to save some for the prince. She looks towards Hogun's younger sister, trying not to be unsettled by how clear her intentions were.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's part of the punishment." Avil murmurs. "He must watch us. The Siren will not let you help. He must suffer."

"All of you made it seem like he'd be whipped to an inch of his life," Sif says, brow furrowed. She keeps her voice low so she won't draw the attention of anyone else but Hogun, seated on his sister's other side. "You said this is _part_ of the punishment? What's the other half? Torture?"

The girl shakes her head, eyes wide. "Not the bloody kind. Not like the blood eagle Asgard does to punish the unjust kills."

Sif glances towards the Snake Prince again, and her fists curl around the edge of her plate. Norns, that _idiot._ If he'd just—if he'd done nothing, Fandral would be out here, sicker and weaker than before. If he'd done nothing, her friend could be dead tomorrow. He had to do something. Sif just wishes it wasn't this. She hates the unknowns of being here. The rules that make no sense and leave her only flustered and angry.

"Then what kind is it?" Sif questions.

Avil wraps her arms around her stomach, "Just hope Fandral feels better soon. It will be better for everyone."

After more prodding by Avil, Sif gives up on waiting for the Siren's attention to drift and finishes the fish. She doesn't feel satisfied, and her stomach churns as she realizes how hungry Loki must be. They've already been half starved since arriving here. To go off of _nothing…_

The Weeping Siren gathers up the plates and vanishes them as she has every other dish with a smile, and rounds them all towards the cellar for bed. The children go without complaint, happy to be out of the rain. Sif's headache has gotten worse as the day's passed, and she's prepared for the few hours of sleep she'll be able to catch, even if it is uncomfortable.

Her fantasies crash when the Weeping Siren grabs Loki's shoulder at last, and, in the nasal voice that's nothing flattering, says, "Stay behind with me, dearest."

 _Torture,_ a part of her mind insists, and Sif wants to grab it by the throat and rattle it. _Will you stop that!?_ She's had no indications that drawing blood will be part of this, but her brain keeps flashing back to it again and again.

Sif stops, and looks back at the creature. She catches as Loki's face falls for the briefest second before the mask is back and he straightens any slumping that was in his posture. "What are you going to do to him?" she asks. She means for her tone to be hard and angry, but it's only quiet and tired.

"Nothing _bad_ ," the Weeping Siren promises, eyes shifting in a way that's almost a roll, "I am a loving mother. I care for my children, I will not do them _harm_. As Fandral sleeps, Loki will not. That was the deal. Loki takes Fandral's punishments until Fandral is well again."

"But that's—" Sif starts, wondering if this is _really_ all it is. Sleep deprivation and forced starvation? The children's protests this morning—they've been here so much longer and she'd thought…

"Off to bed," the Weeping Siren demands, "you need to keep up your rest."

Sif holds her ground, Hogun and Volstagg beside her. "We're not going to just _let_ you—"

" _Off to bed."_ The Weeping Siren's voice holds no question and Sif's limbs move before she can stop them. Her teeth grind together hard enough to make her headache worse, and she doesn't stop until she's laying flat on her back and the spell releases.

The children have all huddled beneath their blankets. The room smells like wet cotton, clothing, and sweat. It's not exactly the most alluring aroma.

Sif forces out a breath and turns to look at Fandral. His eyes are closed and he's breathing with a rattle, in and out. The Weeping Siren chains them to the beds, pressing kisses against a few of the children's heads and leaves the room.

Loki doesn't come back that night.

000o000

Fandral isn't awake when they're rushed up the ladder to gather their food. Sif barely has time to check on his fever (still much the same as yesterday), gather her bearings and try to ignore the pulsing headache pounding inside her skull. Her throat is raw and aches in a way that's almost disturbingly itchy.

The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle, hardly the soaking downpour it was a few days ago, and Sif is more than grateful for this fact. (And disappointed, because this can't mean Thor is coming anymore. It doesn't mean he's _here)._ As every day before this, Sif takes her portion of the watery oats and sits at the table.

Loki is already seated there, wet, but otherwise seeming unharmed. Some anxiety releases and she takes the seat across from him as Volstagg sits down next to him. The entire mass of children seems to ignore the usual table they sit at to crowd around this one, all stuffing themselves as much as possible around the second prince.

"You sleepy?" one of the younger children asks, voice a quiet hush.

Loki looks drastically uncomfortable in the attention— _and is that strange,_ a rather sly part of her sneers, _shouldn't he be basking in it? Doesn't he love it so?_ She shakes the voices off as unimportant and rendered from exhaustion—staring at the lot of them like they've grown an unnecessary body part.

"What?" He looks down at young daughter, who has squished her way onto his other side.

"Sleepy." The girl repeats. "You need the sleeps-sleeps yet?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Loki promises, smiling in a way that's a little too tight to be sincere. His eyes are wide, though, as if he wasn't expecting this to happen. For anyone to _ask._

The girl's lips turn down in a frown and Li's expression goes pained for a moment. Haunted. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

That's not ominous at all. Sif sighs and shakes her head at the dramatics of the young ones, focusing her attention on the Snake Prince and ignoring the Weeping Siren's frowned displeasure sent their way. "Did she harm you?"

Again, Loki gives her that wide-eyed look. "No." He says slowly. "No, I'm fine."

He _looks_ fine. A little tired, maybe anxious, but fine.

"What did she do?" Hogun questions, brow furrowed some as he gives the second prince a hard stare.

Loki's lips press together and his fingers tighten some. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not discuss it. You should eat that," he tips his head in the direction of their bowls, "it's going to get cold."

"Was it ever warm?" Sif mutters conversationally, dipping her spoon inside of the watery mush. It tastes like ash in her mouth, and she can see Loki's quiet longing even if he voices nothing. The Weeping Siren stares at them with a near-murderous stare that prevents Sif from trying to slip Loki the food again.

000o000

Sif keeps an eye out for any possible escape routes, but finds none. Her hands are still jittery and her head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, but she keeps moving forward. Keeps cutting, and trying to focus on something other than how much her shoulders hurt.

They return that night, and it's a near mimic of before. Loki is kept out, and they return to the cellar.

Fandral _is_ awake this time, groggy and barely able to get two words of a question out before he's vomiting everywhere and the Weeping Siren rushes at him to soothe his aches and clean him up. Sif scowls into her back, but if the creature is aware of it, she says nothing.

Fandral doesn't get better (to the point of standing or moving) the next day.

Or the following.

Or the one after that.

It's day six when Sif finally cracks and plops herself down beside the second prince, shoving a bit of her meal towards him. Loki has not slept or eaten since that day, and it's starting to show. His hands are twitching and anxious, he cut himself on the dull blade three times this afternoon. His eyes have gained deep shadow-like bags. The bones on his face have become more prominent.

Sif curses their enhanced metabolisms and shoves the bit of food towards him. "Fandral's getting better," she whispers, "I'd say a day or two before he's on his feet again. You need to eat something. Keep up your strength."

Loki looks like he might be sick at the sight of the bit of barely cooked fish she's shoving towards him. He shakes his head. "I can't." He breathes.

"Loki, please," Volstagg pleads. "It's been nearly a week."

"I can't." Loki repeats, stuffing his fingers into the crooks of his arms. "Mother will be cross with me."

Sif stills, her tongue tangling inside the roof of her mouth. She shares a frantic look with Volstagg. _Mother._ He really said that in regards to _the Weeping Siren._ Not his mother, the Queen, but this—this _creature_ that has half-starved him.

_Mother._

"Loki," Volstagg barely manages to keep his voice in check, "that _thing_ is not your mother. You are the son of Queen Frigga."

Loki bites at his lip and wipes hair from his face. "I'm so tired, please, don't...don't make me think. My head is too loud. I want it to be quiet." He grips at the sides of his hair.

The Weeping Siren's arm suddenly latches around Loki's shoulders and Loki stills at the contact. The creature's smile is wide and sickly. Sif wants to break her nose hard enough to cause deformation to the ugly face.

"Do you eat, my child?" the Weeping Siren questions, "It is not fit for you to consume anything yet."

Loki straightens, slapping Sif's attempted offering aside and shakes his head. "No, Mother. I did not."

"Good." The Siren coos and runs a hand through his hair. "Very good."

Sif thinks she might be sick at the sight. Loki has still not told them what happens at night, but from what Sif's managed to wrangle from the other children it involves being wet, uncomfortable, and the Siren forcing you to stay awake with her songs. Sif's still not certain about the last part, and has mostly put it together on inference, rather than actual facts. None of the children like to talk about it.

All of them call her mother.

Sif wonders idly if this has something to do with that.

Loki doesn't take her food.

000o000

It's close to ten days when Fandral can finally drag himself out of the dank basement, and Sif thinks she might weep at the sight. The Weeping Siren's pleased smile as she wraps her arms around him in a stiff embrace makes her sick, and it only gets worse when Fandral says, "I'm well, Mother, thanks to your aid."

Sif remembers the Siren's frequent trips to the cellar, and hates when she realizes that the only reason Fandral likely survived was from the creature's aid. The reason her shield-brother almost died was because of the woman, but she's also the reason he still lives.

Loki is barely coherent when they all go back to the cellar and he stands near the creature like he's done every night previous, only for the Weeping Siren to grab his elbow and lead him towards the dank sleeping quarters.

The gnaw of worry she's been shouldering since this whole mess started eases some. Loki will sleep tonight. Everything will get better from here. They just need to be more careful in the future, and then they can work together to find an escape route from the dome.

Loki collapses against the empty bed across from hers and lays there like the dead. His eyes remain open, face tilted only so he can breathe. The mattresses are like laying on top of bricks, but the way Loki is draped across his makes it seem like a cloud.

The Weeping Siren clicks the chain on Sif's ankle before moving towards Loki and tapping his shoulder. Loki flinches, jerking away from her and making a little noise Sif can't interpret. "Please," Loki's voice is a rasp, "please, Fandral is well again. His punishments h'v' stopped, I can sle'p now."

The Weeping Siren gives a little laugh, lifting up a syringe. Aetheitin. Sif's stomach tightens and she can't help but stare when Loki's eyes go wide and he muffles noise of open protest. The Weeping Siren grabs his arm and shoves the ratty sleeve up to his elbow. Sif barely contains her gasp to a sharp inhale. Loki's forearms are a mess of bruises from past injections. Purple and sickly yellow with clearly collapsed veins dotting almost everywhere.

The sight is sickening.

The Weeping Siren has to try several veins before she finds one and she shoves the liquid down. Loki makes a noise like his lungs are being torn from his chest, eyes wide and chest heaving with a voiceless scream. Her eyes go wide and she sits up, but she knows that anything she says or does will be useless.

She wants to offer comfort, to reassure, but she has nothing.

Loki has had to endure this by himself for ten days, with no food or sleep. Tears of pain slip down his thin face and Sif's resolve crumples. She can't do this. She can't stand by idly and pretend that she's being a hero while he suffers. The Weeping Siren pulls the syringe from Loki's skin and wipes away his tears with her thumb.

"Shh. There, there, dearest." The creature coos. "It's only a moment."

_Does it hurt?_

_Like a bruise. Sometimes I can focus on nothing else._

She can't. _She can't._ Her mind grabs at the only thing that will work and she shifts, turning her gaze to face the woman. "Mother," she whispers the title, has to swallow her horror down because this is more important. "Mother."

The Weeping Siren stills and then turns slowly. Her eyes are alight with delight and the smile she's wearing seems so genuine Sif doesn't know if she can finish. She hates this. Norns, she _hates this._ She can't do this anymore. She can't handle another day to add to the list of...oh, for the love of—she can't even remember how long it's been anymore.

Twenty days?

Seventeen?

_Weeks._

"Daughter?" the creature prods. "What ails you? What do you need?"

She swallows, forcing the words out like she's being strangled by them. "Please, Mother. Loki is sick and he's exhausted. Please let me offer comfort."

Had she had a weapon, Sif's voice would have a been a confident threat. As it is, she feels like a hopeless little girl, lost in the woods. She wants to talk with her parents, to see her _real_ mother and reassure herself of their solidity. She had a life before this, she's _so sure._ Thor was there. And Asgard. She has not always just known these barren fields and time warps.

The Weeping Siren must be pleased enough with her calling it the title—Sif had expected as much—because she nods eagerly and moves to release the chain. Sif barely mumbles out a thanks before she staggers the little space between herself and the gasping, sobbing youngest prince and climbs onto the mattress beside him.

The Weeping Siren watches them like they're some sort of entertaining fight, but Sif has grown used to her stares. (Sif hates that this is the case, but what can be done?)

Sif gently wraps her arms around Loki's stiff shoulders and draws him close. The second prince stiffens immediately at the contact, harsh breathing coming to a stop as he inhales deeply with surprise. Possibly pain. Sif immediately winces, and quietly curses herself for being stupid.

Why would Loki take comfort from _her?_

She hasn't exactly given him a bountiful amount of reasons to _trust_ her in the first place.

Loki loosens some after a second and sinks into her touch. "Sorry." He mutters, voice barely audible. Sif's hands relax and she holds him closer, Loki slumping against her frame as if too exhausted to hold up his own. "Not used to…this..." Loki trails and coughs softly.

Sif's eyes narrow and she chances a look up at the others. Fandral is turned onto one side, exhausted and slumped against the meager bed. Volstagg is watching them with a furrowed expression, seeming as confused by Loki's words as she feels. Hogun is much the same, but his gaze keeps settling between his younger sister and herself and Loki.

How can Loki...is this just the murmurings of the drugs or something else?

But _how_ could Loki not be used to _hugs?_ Sif doesn't know Queen Frigga awfully well, but she seems like the affectionate type. The one that would give out hugs often. Thor never stiffens when Sif draws him in for an embrace, and Loki never flinches away from Thor's frequent shoulder touches or pats on the back, so it's not like they've been _touch_ starved by their parents.

It's...it has to be the drugs. It must be. But she still can't appease her mind with the platitudes. "What do you _mean_ you aren't used to this?" Sif questions, trying to keep her voice level and the surprise from creeping in. Her parents...this all seems so trivial somehow.

Loki shrugs, sighing deeply and squeezes his eyes shut. "Don' know why you care so much. It's not...appropriate for the royal family to show physical affection to each other in public—Thor should know better, but he doesn't care, I think—and I rarely see my parents in private since I've gotten older. I have to make an audience to see my father privately, and Mother only has a few spare minutes at a time for talking. It's not a problem. Used to bother me. Doesn't now."

Sif adjusts to hold him better and feels her eyes widen some with surprise.

_Oh._

She doesn't know why this hadn't occurred to her before. She's _heard_ Thor mention offhandedly about how hard it is to get in contact with his father, but it seems so _strange_ to have to schedule a time to do so. Almost ridiculous. But Thor and Loki are princes of the Golden Realm, their parents easily run five of the Nine realms—despite the insistence otherwise—and influence the rest without a second thought. A few states wouldn't have been a problem, but these are _worlds._ The fact alone that they manage _Asgard_ is nothing short of a miracle.

How many times has she taken for granted her mother's warm meals and ceaseless attention? How many times has she expected her father's warm embrace when she returns home? How many times has she burst into her parents' room and wordlessly asked for attention? Had her hurts and bruises fretted over for weeks despite having healed in days? Trusted her mother with deep secrets because she considers her parents to be some of her closest friends?

What if that had just... _stopped_ suddenly? She knows that when Loki and Thor were younger the royal family was closer. What if her family had just…

Loki seems so _calm_ about it all, though, as if this is a normal fact of life everyone has to deal with. Sif holds him tighter subconsciously. "Loki…" she breathes out.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. "Hurts." He mumbles, and the admission must mean it's far worse than Sif first thought. "Why are you being nice to me? You hate me."

Sif sputters. "We don't...we don't _hate_ you." She nearly swallows the words. There's truth behind her words of course, and she's almost startled by Loki's blunt honesty. It seems so out of character for him. Raw. Broken. So unlike the mask she's seen him wear for decades. _Perhaps,_ a soft, silky voice murmurs in the back of her mind, _he has not trusted you with the truth before._

She tries to shove the notion to the side, but it lingers with her. Sticking like a parasite inside her mind and refusing to be quieted.

The truth.

_The truth._

Loki's still stiff, as if his body doesn't know how to relax inside an embrace, and something in her heart twists painfully. Loki is so young. She can't believe how ignorant she's been of that fact, but Loki is _so young._ Yes, he's come of age, but only _just._

"Alwa's saying nast'y things." Loki shakes his head, hair sticking to the sides of his face. "It hurts. You don't even _like_ me, and I used to tr' really, really hard to mak' all of y'u, 'cause I don' know...how to have friends, but you always…it okay, I know it's my fault. Somethin' wrong with _me,_ not you."

"Loki," she inhales the word, horrified.

_The truth._

Loki slumps further against her, as if he can't hold up his weight anymore. "You hate me." He insists, "You hate me, and I tr' to not let it hur't, but I can't...figure out what 'm doing wrong. I'll get it. Hopefull'. Fat'er says 'm hopeless cause."

She shakes her head, lips forming words that won't come out right. _The truth._

"I don' mind i'. The hug." Loki slurs. She has her doubts that any of these words would be leaving the Snake Prince's lips if he wasn't half dead and delusional off of Aetheitin and lack of sleep. "'t's nice. I see why Thor likes you. You're warm."

She can't come up with anything intelligible to say, so she says nothing. She can't believe half of what just came out of the second prince's mouth—half of her wants to outright deny it as an attempt for attention—but this is no place for games. Loki took Fandral's punishment, he kept them all alive. He has done nothing but give them reasons to trust him.

So why would he lie?

_You hate me._

Sif holds him until she can't. Loki eventually nods off in her embrace, face smoothing and the creases of pain vanishing. She hadn't realized they were there until they're gone, and wonders just how awful the injection is. The Weeping Siren tugs her away once Loki has relaxed and Sif allows herself to go without protest.

The chain clinks around her ankle and the Weeping Siren presses a kiss on her brow. Sif feels oddly numbed to it. She doesn't try to fight. Doesn't retort with burning anger. She can't focus on anything but the to-thin frame across from her.

_You hate me._

After a few more rounds of goodnight and a failed attempt at soothing a child, the Weeping Siren leaves. Sif watches her go, and presses a hand towards her forehead where the creature's lips brushed her. It feels cold, as if the skin has withered to bone in disgust and angry at her for not even trying to escape the affection.

_You hate me._

Sif thinks, and she can't stop thinking. If they'd simply caught the Siren, this never would have happened. She doubts she would have ever heard those broken words escape Loki's lips. She can't stop her mind from whirling around her and her companions interactions with the prince.

Thor's constant reassurances that they should just try harder and Loki wasn't who they thought he was. Loki's defensiveness at everything he says, as if constantly preparing for a rebuke and often receiving it. Their nitpicking, talking behind his back, openly complaining at his presence, the teasing that could cut to bone, blaming him for mistakes that weren't even his fault, mockery of his skillset, constantly tearing down his status and trampling his titles beneath their feet as if it meant nothing—

_Why are you being nice to me?_

_You hate me._

"The hardest truths are often spoken when we least expect them." Hogun's voice is soft. Sif startles, rolling to the other side of the mattress and sees the Vanir warrior looking at her. She can tell that Fandral and Volstagg are awake because their breathing isn't deep enough. If she listens close enough, she can also pick out their heartbeat.

"What do you mean?" Sif whispers, barely daring to raise her voice any higher.

"Lack of sleep does things to the mind, Sif," Hogun murmurs, "Loki is losing himself to it. Words he would not dare to say outloud are now being pulled from him, and we were not ready."

_Why are you being so nice to me?_

"Surely he couldn't have _meant_ any of that." Volstagg breathes, "Just the ramblings of a drug-addled mind."

"He hasn't slept in ten days," Fandral reminds in a soft baritone, "what of that?"

"That, I'm sure, is adding," Hogun sighs, "but Aetheitin has more than one purpose. It is also used in law enforcement; as a way to _encourage_ any under questioning to speak the truth."

_You hate me._

"But we don't hate him." Sif grasps desperately, "Surely he must _know_ that."

"If you'd asked us before the capture, what would you have said, Sif?" Fandral questions, his voice is gentle, as if trying to break a hard truth to a distressed victim. Sif stops, trying to _absorb_ all of this. It doesn't feel real. "We haven't exactly given him a bountiful amount of reasons to think otherwise—even here. He's saved our sorry butts from mess after mess with the Siren, and in return we've done nothing."

As would have been normal.

Sif wouldn't have even thought twice about it because that's what Loki _does_ —but now she scours back through her memories to find similar instances, and realizes with a slight jolt she can't even _count_ them. She and the Warriors Three profess to be one of the closest groups in the training field. They understand each other at an intimate level most troops will never reach. It's almost like telepathy.

But she and the Warriors have never known their second prince. Have not even bothered to _try_ because they assumed that since they've known him since they were adolescents, they have properly judged his character.

They were wrong.

_Why are you being so nice to me?_

_You hate me._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, sleep-deprived characters are a guilty pleasure of mine. :) Thanks for your encouragement, guys, it's really been a boost. You're all amazing!
> 
> Next chapter: September 13th, possibly sooner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey, my stars! Let's pretend I didn't fail and actually got this out on a Friday the thirteenth, alright? Great. ;) Thanks.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, physiological torture, potentially disturbing elements, referenced child death. Please be mindful of yourselves, my stars. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for your support, guys, it has been amazing. I greatly appreciate it. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing!

* * *

"Alright, enough." The words seem to have been wrung from the Snake Prince, "You've done nothing but stare at me all day like I gave a swift kick to your favorite pet, so will you _please_ explain what I've done wrong this time?" Loki slides into the seat in front of Sif and her huddled group, swirling the glass of water he was given with one finger as he stares at them. His gaze is piercing, and Sif resists the urge to lift her hands over her heart as if she can protect it from his parsing. Words won't come.

She feels a warm flush of embarrassment rise to her cheeks at the realization that Loki noticed, but it's too late to stop it now. A day of watching the back of his head without subtly has brought forth its fruit. Loki woke up and acted as if nothing had happened. He was grumpy, tired, and clearly needed more sleep than the few hours the Weeping Siren granted them, but he said nothing about what happened last night.

Sif has her doubts he doesn't remember. It would be too simple of an answer, and things are rarely that way with the second prince.

"We're just...making sure you're alright?" Fandral's voice portrays the sentence like he meant for it to be a firm statement, but it comes out as a question. If he'd said it a little clearer, Sif probably would have jumped on that excuse.

Loki scoffs openly, taking a drink from the cup. His eyes are still shadowed heavily, face gaunt and pale, and there's a part of his eyes that seems to have faded into nothing. They've always held a residual fire in them, but they've dulled. It didn't go away with sleep. Sif doesn't think it will.

"Yes. Certainly."

"Well, then we understand each other." Fandral gives a grim smile.

"Listen," Loki sets the glass down, leaning forward with his hands clasped. "If this has anything to do with what happened last night—" they seem to share a mutual flinch, and, Norns, she can't, _you hate me_ "—I was drugged. I hadn't slept in ten days. I wasn't thinking clearly and babbling on about nothing. You can ignore it and go back to hating me."

_You hate me._

Breath constricts in her chest. "Loki." The word sounds all funny.

"You'll blame this all on the drugs, then?" Volstagg asks, obviously skeptical. Loki's face smooths and he gives a sharp nod. Sif can't read his expression, but she's never been very good at reading it anyway.

Hogun huffs, rolling his eyes visibly and shoves the plate out of the way. Sif glances up to make sure the Weeping Siren is ignoring them again, and then returns her attention to the table. "You only protect your pride by pretending nothing you said wasn't real." The Vanir warrior says firmly.

"My _pride?"_ Loki repeats, eyebrow lifting, "Yes. That's my biggest concern at the moment."

"Loki." Sif sighs. She gathers her patience together and breathes out deeply. "This isn't a game."

"No." He agrees.

"You've always...just...you've always been so _quiet._ If you _hadn't_ been drugged and sleep deprived, I doubt you would have said half of what you did—" Loki's fists clench slightly "—and that's just what it is. Stop trying ignore that you said anything. If you'd just—"

" _How_ is this possibly _my_ fault?" Loki interrupts her, slamming his hands onto the table top. "Am I supposed to have poured my heart out to you years ago? No—that's not it. Would you like me to keep _going?_ List my grievances and have them be ignored _again?"_

A warm flush of energy surges through her and Sif shoves up to her feet as well, teeth set. "We wouldn't have ignored them!"

Loki lets out a laugh. It's grainy and bitter. The disbelief is obvious and her fingers dig into the wood of the tabletop. She can see the other children stopping their frantic food consumption to look towards them. It's the first time that their bickering has gone beyond a few words since they got here. Sif didn't think herself capable of _being_ angry like this since the Weeping Siren took them.

Sif refuses to look in the creature's direction, ignoring the fact that she's probably giving them that stare. The one that makes Sif's insides freeze and offer her compliance without complaint.

"How were we supposed to know that we were doing something wrong if you would never _tell_ us?" Sif demands, keeping her voice low.

Loki's mask flickers. The emotion that washes over his face for the brief second isn't one she can place. He's quiet for a long second before his head tilts and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. There's nothing explicitly threatening about it, but Sif feels wariness raise in her all the same.

"Are you _truly_ so sadistic?" Sif draws back at the voice, surprised by the question. Loki's tone is even, as if asking her about the weather, but the words take root in her and dig.

" _What?"_ That's Fandral's voice, not hers, even though it probably should be.

Loki looks between the four of them, something dark in his gaze. "Sadistic. I'm fairly certain that by your age you should have a vocabulary level wide enough to have encountered the word before."

"Of course, but—" Volstagg tries.

"No. Shut up." Loki demands, "Because _I shouldn't have had to._ My _silence_ should have had no effect on whether or not you would refrain from _trying_ to treat me decently. Was your social status so important to you that you would completely disregard the fact that I—" Loki releases a heavy breath, cutting himself off mid sentence before continuing in a voice laced with venom, "You make me sick, do you know that? I'd have rather been stuck with Frost Giants than the lot of you. At least then I'd know _why_ they hate me so much."

"Children." The Weeping Siren's voice sounds off to their left, but Sif ignores it entirely, focused only on King Odin's second heir. Her teeth are latched together so tightly her jaw aches. The words sting. _Silvertongue,_ a sing-song voice calls out from the back of her mind. He didn't get the name from his negotiation skills alone. Loki knows where to dig.

Social status? He thinks all of this had to do with _social status?_

Something in her gives a hollow snap. "You never made matters any better! We were _trying_ to be decent with you, but you always responded to our kindness with this—" she gestures wildly towards him, "—so how were we supposed to have acted? We never _hated_ you, Loki. You hated _us."_

Loki's quiet a for a long smile before a splintering smile stretches across his lips. It's too wide to be sincere. Something hot burns in her stomach as she sees it. "Oh, that's rich. I'm truly sorry that the lack of communication is all entirely _my fault—_ just like anything else that does anything to project you in a view that is less than perfect."

Hogun makes a noise in the back of his throat, lips pressing into a thin line.

Loki's head tilts and he turns his piercing stare to her. Specifically, her hair. Sif's fingers curl as she follows his line of thought. A heated breath escapes her and she slams a fist down on the table. "Say something about it, I challenge you, because, for the record, I wish that the thread _had_ been enchanted to not be removed. At least then your _voice_ wouldn't be as much of a burden as the rest of you is."

She wishes she could take the words back as soon as they fall off her tongue, but she can't. _Watch your tongue, girl,_ her father's voice berates in the back of her mind, _or you'll only get yourself into trouble._

"Sif." Volstagg breathes. They never talk about Nidavellir. Not explicitly. The offhanded comment about her hair, but that's about it. No one even really knows what _happened._ If Loki's discussed it with anyone, she hasn't heard details. She only saw the aftereffects.

Loki stiffens, hand lifting to his face subconsciously.

" _Children."_ The Weeping Siren insists. She's moving closer to the table, but Sif doesn't care. "Please. There is no need for this conflict."

The Snake Prince is quiet for a long moment before a dark laugh bubbles out. "All of this is because I wasn't _nice_ enough to you? Dear Sif, what on the Nine _will_ you do when you realize that not everyone is going to care that you killed a dragon, bilge snipe or some type of rat? You actually need to have _some_ skills that can be of use beyond where to stab something—"

Sif grabs on his arm and yanks. The searing heat makes her vision dark around the edges and the only think she can focus on is the cold knives of his words digging into her chest. Loki flinches and his hands raised to block off his face. She barely hears the words by how low they're muttered. "At least I never _hit_ you."

She releases him like his skin is burning her. She shoves back so harshly that she nearly tumbles backwards off of the bench attached to the table. Fandral has to grab at her arm to stop her from falling. Loki staggers, but he manages to keep himself upright, looking towards her with nothing short of confusion.

Loki could have listed all the grieves in the world that they've done to them, and she doubts that it would have changed anything. Her mind would have found some sort of excuse for what she'd done, tried to worm out of guilt because it's easier than facing the fact she's wrong. It doesn't change much. It's _this._

Loki is _expecting_ her to hit him. Had braced himself for it. Sif remembers after they lost Idrissa and something uncomfortable swims in her chest. It's not the first time that something like that has happened. And not just from her.

Words are one thing.

This is something else entirely.

Sif glances down at her hand and remembers the awful bruising that had spread across her knuckle and a half noise escapes the back of her throat. "Oh, Norns, Loki," she whispers, "Loki, I'm so sorry."

" _What?"_ The Snake Prince sounds bewildered. His stance is tight, as if he's prepared to defend himself further. Sif squeezes her eyes shut. She should have handled that differently. But _knowing_ that she made the mistake...didn't change that much. Not until now. She needs to do better. She shouldn't have tried to twist this—even if her intent hadn't been to blame Loki for everything. That just...that just sort of happened. And it's ridiculous.

_Are you really that sadistic?_

Are they really that ignorant to the amount of pain they're causing? Apparently.

The Weeping Siren rests her hands on the table, leaning forward, expression hard. "Shh," she chides. "You scare the young ones."

Sif flicks her gaze up and sees the children watching them with wide eyes. Food has been entirely forgotten. Weeks of the same routine has finally been broken by their tempers. If it had been a normal meal, they would have remained quiet and then left to complete their tasks. No. Sif had to make a mess of everything.

She looks up, "Loki, I—"

"No." The Weeping Siren cuts. "Silence now. You've had your say. _Too much_ of your say. Be quiet. The next person who talks among the arguers must receive punishment. We don't argue in a family. We get along; like harmony. Go to bed."

They remain stagnant, standing there and refusing to look at one another.

The Weeping Siren makes an annoyed noise in the back of her throat and points to the cellar. " _Go."_

000o000

It's hours later, long after the Weeping Siren has left that she hears the soft creak of metal grinding and a soft voice whisper her name. Sif's not quite asleep, but getting there and it takes her a few seconds to realize that it _is_ her name and who the source is. She releases a breath before sighing and rolling over to face Loki.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" she questions quietly, mindful of those who are resting.

"Yes." He murmurs.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

"I'm sorry." Loki admits quietly. "I shouldn't have said what I did earlier. Or said it differently. It's not just your fault that...that we've had a strained relationship. A large portion of that burden, I suspect, is also my fault."

"Right." Sif scoffs in soft disagreement. Loki's expression twists in confusion and Sif sighs. _All-Fathers give me strength._ "Loki, that's ridiculous. _We_ were the ones that misjudged and mistreated you. There's nothing _wrong_ with you. We had no reason to begin to treat you as less than us, but we did all the same. Norns, Loki, we barely treated you better than a Frost Giant."

"That's not—" Loki starts to defend.

"Please don't." Fandral sighs and Sif twists around to look back at the swordmaster. She hadn't realize that he was awake. "Please don't try to justify our actions. There was nothing just about them, mate."

"You were right. We shouldn't have expected you to tell us to stop." Volstagg murmurs. "We should have realized it on our own a long, _long_ time ago. I'm sorry, my prince, if you'd have my apology."

"And mine." Hogun intones quietly.

"Aye." Fandral voices.

"I _am_ sorry, my prince. I swear it." Sif says sincerely. She holds Loki's stare until he pulls it away. "You don't have to forgive us right now. Or ever." Sif promises, "But we need to work together if we're going to get out of here, and we can't do that if we're constantly trying to kill each other."

There's silence for almost a minute and something in her chest sinks with disappointment and despair. _Loki has every right to be angry,_ she reassures herself. He has had more than enough reasons for years now.

"I know that." Loki says at last and releases a shaky breath.

"Can we start over?" Sif asks after a hesitation. "We'll do it right this time, I promise. Will you give us another chance?"

There's another long, drawn out silence before, "Yes. We can try...but I make no promises."

"It's more than we deserve, mate," Fandral assures, "now go to bed. It must be the middle of the night and my guilty conscious has finally found a moment of reverie. Good night."

000o000

Does it happen at once? No.

Does it seem to happen at all? No.

Was Sif expecting some high beings power to magically help them get along better? Admittedly, yes.

Realistically, that doesn't happen. Sif spends the next few days biting her tongue almost constantly in the midst of conversations to keep back something, but it's getting easier. She's less annoyed than she would have been a few weeks ago. Honestly, she thinks she was already making progress in this direction before Loki said anything. She's just far more aware of it now than she was before.

They keep looking for an escape, some sort of _out,_ but days keep slipping away without any answers. She's getting more tired and it's harder to focus on anything but how hungry and exhausted she is. It's like it's consuming her whole focus and boiling it down into a single point.

They can't find the escape.

_Where is their out!?_

Sif stops counting the passage of time. It's easier that way.

They've been here for...for a while when the Weeping Siren drops into the cellar one morning with a rucksack swung over one shoulder. She drops something heavy on the ground and it lands with a loud _thunk_ before she smiles happily. "Dearests, Mother has an errand she must take care of. I'll return in a few days. Remain here."

Sif's expression flickers and she sits up, barely awake, but manages to keep herself up. "What?"

The Weeping Siren sends her a scathing look. "No questions, daughter. _Shh."_ She lifts a hand to her lips to further press her point. Sif feels her lips press together. Did the Siren use her voice to command Sif to be quiet? Or is she following just because the creature told her to. Does it really matter either way? _(Yes. She's not a trained hunting dog.)_

The Weeping Siren smiles reassuringly. "I'll be back. I promise. And when I return, we'll have a new member of the family."

Sif's blood runs cold. Her limbs stiffen and her heart stutters in her chest. "You're taking another child? You're leaving to claim one? How _can_ you? Don't you see what you're doing!?" The questions bubble out without her meaning them to.

The Weeping Siren's piercing stare lands on her again. " _Yes._ The last one for a while, I think. I've been greedy this year," her smile stretches and Sif feels vaguely sick with disgust. _She's going to take another one from their family._

"You can't—" she starts to protest.

" _Silence,"_ the Weeping Siren calls in a sing-song voice. Sif's jaw snaps shut. "Mother gives her love. I'll be with you shortly." With that said, the Siren adjusts her hold on the pack before turning and clambering up the ladder, taking it with her. The trap door snaps shut.

Sif feels a profanity tug at the tip of her tongue, but it won't come off. Loki has no such restraints and whispers one under his breath.

The Weeping Siren left them with enough food to last for a few days, but not much more than that. The chains are unlocked, allowing them to move within the confines of the cellar, but it doesn't do much except give them a small space to pace back and forth through. Sif can't keep herself from fidgeting. Their initial attempts to climb up the wall to reach the trap door fail and Sif is forced to accept the fact that, unless they're privy to a miracle, they aren't leaving.

Loki collapses against the bed for the first day and doesn't move, apparently taking this opportunity to catch up on lost sleep. Sif's body suggests that she should follow in his footsteps, but her mind is buzzing too much for her to lay still. The Warriors Three are about as fidgety as her, but less obvious about it.

It takes until the next day before the children do much else than sit in silence and sleep. Avil rounds up a small group and they start to play some sort of hand game while Li collects a bunch of rocks and builds a tower with three of the others. The remaining children busy themselves with pretending to be maids and cleaning the room while having an all-superior child boss them back and forth. Not the type of game Sif would have expected them to play at a first glance because it reminds her eerily of the Weeping Siren, but they seem to enjoy it.

Loki finally rouses from the dead what must be at least thirty hours later, but still looks ready to clamber onto the mattress and not move for a couple more dozen.

Sif finally stops her pacing to sit next to him on the mattress. "You alright?"

Loki makes a noise that could mean anything, and lifts up a hand to rub at his arm. "I feel terrible."

"Specifically?" Sif asks, wringing her hands with anxiety. "You were asleep for more than a full day. At least, that's what I'm guessing." She hasn't been very good at keeping track of time lately.

Loki lifts up his arm and tugs down his sleeve for her to see his forearm. Sif's head tilts some as she squints in the awful lighting—lanterns do almost nothing compared to daylight—and sees nothing until Loki pushes two fingers down onto his inner wrist and stretches the skin. Sif spots a faint glimmer of light and her breath catches in her throat. "Is that—?"

"Sedir." Loki answers for her. "Yes." He sounds utterly miserable, and Sif's expression flickers.

She lifts her gaze up to his face. "I don't understand. Isn't this a good thing?"

"Maybe." Loki sighs heavily. "Sif, Aetheitin isn't...it doesn't...I'm dying. It's burning here," he presses a finger against his chest where his heart is, "and that's where it's meant to. Sedir is a form of blood, you know. It's...it's stopping my heart, and now it wont stop burning because my heart and lungs have to process the sedir again and they haven't done it for weeks. Months. How ever long it would be."

Like a stomach would after not eating for several days or weeks. Sif's lips press together. She wishes the Weeping Siren a brutal end for the umpteenth time since this all started and hums under her breath. "Can you not use it to help?"

Loki shakes his head, rubbing at his forearm with his thumb again. "No. I'll give myself a cardiac arrest first—too much strain on the heart. Mother's going to come back and give me Aetheitin and it will hurt more because I've had more time to build up a supply. If it was _useful_ I'd be elated. I tried to use it. That's why I was asleep for so long."

Sif sighs running a hand through her hair. "This is a disaster." She mutters. "How long do you think we have before it kills you?"

Loki shrugs, making a face. "Half a year to a year at most. I don't know how long we've been here already."

"Me either." Sif bites at her lower lip. "I stopped keeping track a while ago." They're quiet for a moment before Sif gently grips his hand and gives it a squeeze of reassurance. Loki's skin is cold to the touch and he looks up at her with some surprise. "If it gets worse, let us know?" She requests sincerely.

Loki nods, returning the pressure. "I will."

000o000

It's amidst feeling bored for the first time in weeks that the trap door finally again opens and Sif sits bolt upright with anticipation. All of them are silent, turning to face the small square of light as it drops into the cellar before the Weeping Siren lands with a slight _thump._

Sif notes with no small amount of disappointment that wrapped in her arms in a small son. She'd been hoping the mission would be a failure. (That Thor would catch her along the way and they'd be looking at a rescue, not more weeks of this drawn out torture.)

The Weeping Siren sets the small child down on the ground and he looks at all of them with wide, tear filled eyes. "This is Quinn," the creature announces, "he is your new brother. Do not be shy, child, your siblings will do you no harm." She gives him a push forward and Quinn makes a noise somewhere between a yelp and a sob.

Sif's stomach twists with sympathy and she rises to get up and help him, but Volstagg beats her to it. He sweeps the child up into his arms and smiles joyfully. "Good day, Quinn, I'm Volstagg." He announces and wipes the son's tears away with his thumb.

The Weeping Siren smiles cheerfully before sweeping her gaze across all of them. Sif shoots her a glower when their gazes meet and sees the smile drop a little. She's vindictively satisfied by this. The creature sighs before snapping her fingers and pointing at Loki. "You. Sit. We have many injections to make up for. I was gone for three days. I imagine that you hurt very much now."

If she wants to make _lightly_ of it. Loki wouldn't move yesterday because he kept insisting that his heart was going to explode if he did anything more strenuous than breathe. It'd frightened her. She hadn't told him as much, but it had. They didn't crawl their way to this point only for him to kill over because the Weeping Siren is sadistic.

Much to her quiet loathing, Loki willingly shoots his arm out for the creature to inject him with before she asks. It does wonders to state how much pain he's in. The Weeping Siren seems far too happy to be doing this. She knows that she's killing him, and she acts like she's giving Loki life.

Norns, Sif can't stand another minute in here.

_They need to leave._

000o000

Days pass. Nights pass. More days. More nights. More and more and more. So many that they've all blurred into one mass and Sif can't tell if she created Asgard as an illusion to stop herself from going insane. A platitude that she had a life before this, but she doesn't think that was real.

Rain comes. It goes.

Clouds pass.

The season ends. They till the ground, planting seeds and watering the small life. They weed it. The sun passes overhead again.

Sif gains a hacking cough that takes forever to leave, but it does. Avil gains a terrible fever, but Hogun manages to keep her from punishment by keeping her firmly by his side and allowing her to sleep. Fandral grows a quieter, Volstagg passes out in the middle of a work day on three separate occasions from dehydration, Loki gets worse. It was a gradual decline at first, one she'd attributed to the days he took of punishment for Fandral, but it was more than that. His movements get more sluggish, he takes longer to respond as if his mind is far away, and he keeps cutting himself with the knife as if his vision isn't working right. He's wracked with chills frequently, even though she can never remember him being cold before this.

Aetheitin. It's killing him, as he insisted.

Sif hates all of this.

They're too exhausted to make an escape, but rescue isn't _coming._ They should have tried to make a break for it before they were all half dead. It's too late now. She has no idea what to do. So they do nothing.

The Weeping Siren pulls the five of them to the side one morning in the middle of the week (beginning, end? What _day_ is it?) and ties her long silver hair up. "I need extra assistance with a project too heavy for the little ones. You are strong."

_No, they are not. Half dead and starved._

None of them protest. Sif's learned better than to do so now. Instead all they do is share a tired look before nodding with agreement and following the creature. She leads them towards the edge of the barrier and through an outcropping of trees before Sif spots a large wooden building.

It's old and in a state of disrepair so intense Sif doesn't even know if it will last longer than a few more days. The wood is rotting and the closer they get to it the more aware Sif becomes of a dank smell. As if there's some sort of polluted water source nearby. Sif suspects it was a light brown at one point, but now the wood is deep gray and black at some edges. The barn itself is fairly large with a sloping roof on top that's in need of patching. It's built on an angle which gives the whole building a lopsided look as if it will simply tip over given strong wind gust.

The Weeping Siren glances back at them. "The animals are eating up all the important foods." She explains, "And they wander off like they are fools. I want to repair the barn for them and you will help me."

Building repair? Sif doesn't have much experience with that. Well. This will be interesting at least. Sif's just happy to be away from the grain.

They work largely on the outside that day, cleaning up weeds and picking up broken branches. The more they clean the outside the more obvious it becomes that the barn needs help. The next day is when Sif finally takes her first steps into the old building.

The planks immediately creak beneath her weight and Sif stops looking down at the floor. She doesn't know what would happen if the floor broke. To be honest, she'd thought that it was laying on top of solid earth from how it looked on the outside. Now that she's inside and the boards are creaking beneath her weight she's not so certain.

The Weeping Siren pats her shoulder in reassurance as she walks past without restraint. "The wood is old and it creaks, daughter. You have no need to fear for your safety."

Her gut says otherwise, but she keeps her lips pressed together, taking a few more steps into the building. The stall doors are broken and Sif spots several lamps hanging off of walls. They're unlit, but the sun does enough to offer very basic lighting. Sif's nose wrinkles at the smell and her stomach churns as she sees a path of red leading towards the back. It's old enough to be more than a few decades and faint, but still there.

"Is that blood?" Fandral questions behind her, pointing towards the smear.

"Yes." The Weeping Siren says, unconcerned. Sif shares a panicked look with Hogun. The creature turns and swipes hair away from her eyes. "It's not a story for your ears," she promises, "and what have I _said_ about questions?"

Fandral winces, and flicks his gaze down. "My apologies, Mother."

"We will work on the front I think. Work on building up the outer walls again. Much of the wood must be replaced. Come," she waves a hand, "I just wanted to check on something inside of here." The wood creaks as she passes, but seems to stop once she reaches a certain point, growing silent. Sif's eyebrows meet with confusion, but she waves it off, following after their captor.

Everything is going fine until Loki drops the plank. They'd been methodically repairing the outer walls for hours with nothing having gone wrong. Then they started moving up. The Warriors and her prince had clambered up the sides of the building to work with the wood uptop as she and the Siren passed items to them. They're at least two stories up, keeping themselves upright with brute strength and careful balance. Everything is fine.

And then Loki's grip slips and the heavy, long piece of wood comes clambering towards the ground. More specifically, towards the Weeping Siren's head. Sif doesn't think she just reacts. Maybe it's years of honed battle skills to save the civilization, maybe it's because she's half dead and isn't thinking clearly, and maybe it's because these weeks (months? years?) of captivity have messed with her mind.

She shoves the creature of the way and the plank smashes into her right arm when she can't move out of the way fast enough before clattering against the ground near her bare feet. The bone snaps cleanly, making a jolting sort of noise and Sif releases a hitched squeak, shaking her hand back and forth at the pain.

She can tell through her sleeve if its deformed or not. The pain doesn't lessen and Sif intakes sharply, making a noise at the back of her throat.

The Warriors and Loki are suddenly in front of her face, Loki bubbling out apologies and Sif trying to keep her arm tucked close to her chest so they wont touch it. "I'm fine," she insists, "It's fine. You just grazed me."

"I _heard_ the bone snap." Fandral argues, "Sif, let us see."

She holds the arm closer, biting at her tongue when it sends a cold rush of pain through her shoulder. "No. Really, I insist it's—"

The Weeping Siren's cold hands grab at her bicep and Sif releases a sharp breath, whipping her head in the direction of the woman. Her expression is slightly clouded, but she appears unharmed from Sif's tackle. Sif hates that a twisted part of her is relieved by this. The Weeping Siren clicks her tongue, pulling Sif's hand down and staring at the arm for a moment.

She raises one of her hands and waves it over, fingers glowing with sedir. A warmth rushes through the air and after the chill it makes her skin oddly itchy.

"Humph." The woman sighs, "A clean break. Come with me, daughter. I have a salve that can repair this in a few hours."

"But bones take at least a week to heal without sedir," Sif blurts out, "where do you _have_ a salve that—" that's a question. Sif snaps her mouth shut and quiets, swallowing the rest of her words.

"My home." The creature answers anyway and grabs her bicep hauling her forward. Sif stumbles, but manages to gain her footing after a step and looks back towards the others frantically. "You four remain here. We'll be back in a few minutes." The Weeping Siren promises. "Your sister will be well again."

The tone is supposed to be reassuring. It doesn't feel like that.

The Weeping Siren hauls her through the meager amount of trees until they're facing the field and they begin to walk towards the house in the distance. They pass the other children who give them odd looks, but Sif focuses on keeping her arm from jerking around too much.

The Weeping Siren's home is holding itself together, but this seems to be the effect of sheer luck rather than careful maintenance. Sif thinks it was a pale blue at one point, but the paint has withered away after the long years. The porch has collapsed on one side and there's smashed flower pots littering the area around the steps as if thrown in a fit of rage.

The Weeping Siren guides her up the steps opening the door and all but shoving her inside. She claps her hands and lights spark immediately, letting Sif do a proper once over of the space. There's a sitting room towards her right, unused, and a large kitchen in front of them.

The Weeping Siren releases her arm, moving towards the cabinets and loudly shuffling through them for something. Keeping a tight grip around her wrist to elevate the swelling area, Sif flicks her gaze across the space. It's small. Smaller than she'd first thought. The room immediately opens into a small kitchen, a couch stuffed into one corner, but she doubts its used much. There's so much dust and junk littered on top of it, she doesn't know _how_ it could be used for anything beyond basic storage.

There isn't a table, and a hall leads off towards some more rooms. Sif suspects that's the place of the sleeping quarters.

"Here." The Weeping Siren declares and moves back towards her, a bottle in hand. It's full of a thick sludge looking substance and her teeth set together with distaste.

"Mother, I don't know if I—" she starts to protest, but the Weeping Siren smiles with that thin edge and she quiets on instinct. The woman takes Sif's arm with more gentleness than Sif would have first expected, guiding it up towards the countertop. She rests Sif's arm flat on the surface and Sif has to bite at her tongue sharply to stop herself from making any noises.

The Weeping Siren tugs up her long sleeve and Sif sees the misformed bone for the first time. It's not jutting out of the skin, which is what she'd half expected, but it isn't pretty. Or normal.

Desperate for a distraction, she stares over the countertop. Everything is what Sif would have expected—everything is _too_ normal here. Why can't there be _evidence_ that this creature is insane? Why is there _nothing_ to suggest that what is happening is real?—but the far wall isn't. It's covered in a streak of white paint with black tick marks measuring the height of something.

Some of the marks are so aged they've faded from a sharp black to a bland gray. Even the most recent is dulled. But Sif recognizes it all the same. It's not a practice that's normally done on Asgard, but Vanir are more sentimental in this regard.

It's the height of children. Two, to be exact. Yei and Holland, if she's reading the text right. None of the children _here_ bare those names. Li comes close, but the letter painted delicately onto the white paint is not an "L".

Her brow furrows, and she glances towards the aged woman carefully tending to her arm. "Who are Yei and Holland?"

The Weeping Siren freezes. Her eyes grow heavy with thick grief for a long moment and a fat tear slips down her cheeks. She's quiet and still for almost a full minute before she answers in a thin voice, "None of the business of yours."

The Weeping Siren rubs the sludge from the jar all over her arm and Sif's bones clench a sharp breath tightening in her lungs. Bone sharpener. Probably for the best, but she wasn't expecting that. It's going to hurt. Her arm will be itchy for days. The muscle spasms likely won't stop for weeks. This is why it's better to just let sedir do the hard work, rather than a potion.

Sif sets her teeth, staring at the weight paint and feels determination settle in her stomach. "There's no one here who's called that. Were they previous...guests?" _Captives._

The Weeping Siren's jaw gains a tic, but she says nothing.

Sif hesitantly pushes forward, "Where are they?"

"Dead." The Weeping Siren snaps, slamming the flask onto the bottle. "They have been for many, many moons. _Stop asking."_

Dead. _Dead?_ Did the Siren kill them? Oh, Norns...if this has been going for so long and she's already claimed the lives of children...but that doesn't make sense with the growth chart. It shows very young adolescents and unless the Weeping Siren was kidnapping babies...

The thought has barely formed before it bubbles out of her throat without restraint, "Were they children of your womb?"

The strike throws her off balance so intensely she can't catch herself and slams into the ground head first. The world blurs and she lets out a heaving gasp, scrambling back and away as the Weeping Siren lets out an animalistic shriek. " _I told you to stop your asking!"_

"I'm sorry," Sif stutters, raw panic opening in her stomach, "I—I'm sorry. Forgive me, Mother—"

Her arm is ringing with pain. She can feel bones shifting inside her forearm. The world is still spinning. The Weeping Siren strides forward and grabs a fistful of her hair, hauling her upright. Sif can't get the helpless pleas of forgiveness to stop from bubbling out of her.

" _No. Questions."_ The Weeping Siren hisses. "It's not a story for your unworthy ears."

"Yes." Sif agrees, nodding her head rapidly. "It's not. I'm sorry."

The Weeping Siren yanks on her scalp further and Sif can't withhold her pained noise. The Weeping Siren grabs at her broken arm and gives it a squeeze. The pressure makes her gasp openly and tears burn on the edges of her vision. "You will say nothing of this to the others. Yei and Holland are precious and do not have their names slandered."

The woman releases Sif, and Sif collapses against the floor, taking the weight onto her undamaged arm. The Weeping Siren lets out a low hiss, " _Get out."_

Sif looks up, confused. "I…?"

" _Get. Out."_

The Weeping Siren delivers a swift kick to her ribs and Sif makes a pained noise before scrambling up to her feet as the Weeping Siren yells profanities at her back. "Get out! _GET OUT! Get out you wretched, ungrateful—"_

Sif scrambles out of the house and doesn't stop running. The rocks cut her feet and her lungs burn inside her chest, but she doesn't stop. Her arm is burning, her ribs ache, but she _can't stop._

She would have gone on forever if arms hadn't grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her to a halt. Her fists tighten and raise for a defense immediately, but stop as she hears the familiar baritone, "Sif?"

Loki.

"Sif, what happened?"

She meets his frantic green eyes and feels herself tumble apart. A gasping sob slips from her lips and she crumbles, unable to hold her weight anymore. Loki catches her weight easily, drawing them both down to the earth as he mumbles reassurances into her ear, pulling her into an embrace.

She feels like a helpless child, incapable of taking care of herself.

Maybe she is.

So much has changed since this all started.

"Is that Sif?" Volstagg questions. His voice startles her. She doesn't know what she'd been expecting, if Loki was here...Sif looks up through her blurred vision and gasping breaths to see the warrior moving out of the barn. She hadn't even realized she'd come back this way until now. She could have ran for the field. For the cellar. _Anywhere_ but here.

She hadn't.

"Yes." Loki's voice is calm. Sif releases a heaving gasp, curling into herself tighter. Loki doesn't protest, keeping his arms wrapped around her firmly. His grip is strangely engulfing, as if nothing can touch her within it. She's ashamed, oddly, to say how much of a relief this is.

A hand gently touches her shoulder, but she doesn't shift to look back at the source. Her body demands she turn around and see what it _is,_ but her mind flattens it out from anything beyond a slight twitch. Loki wouldn't let anything harmful touch her. She's fine.

(Her arm hurts. Norns, she can't…)

"Sif?" Hogun. "Sif, did she harm you?"

Her ribs burn at the memory and her face stings from the backhand, but she can't get anything but a strangled sort of wheeze to slip out in response. It's far from helpful, that much she's fully aware of, but it's all she can do right now.

"Give her some space," Loki instructs, "she's not...she's not thinking clearly right now."

Sif shakes her head in protest. She's thinking _fine._ (She's not.) Her body won't stop shaking, a prison of terrified flesh. She can't breathe. The panic has clasped around her lungs and filled them with sand. They're heavy, and she can't get them full enough. Her hair is falling in front of her eyes, getting soaked in her tears.

_Pathetic._

"Sif." Loki's voice is still steady. "Sif, I need you to breathe with me."

"I-I _c-can't—"_ she gasps out. "L-Loki something's—"

"In for two..." Loki instructs. Someone else's hands move to tug her hair away from her face, beginning on a braid. She thinks it's Hogun. "Sif. In for two." Loki repeats. How can he be so patient? Is she dying? She thinks she's dying. It feels like she's dying. Her heart is going to explode in her chest.

Sif forces herself to pay attention and inhales with a rattle for the two count, holding, and then releases for four. Loki repeats the instructions again and again until her head as managed to clear some and her breathing is less sporadic. Her teeth set into her tongue. She can't get any words to come out, but her face heats with embarrassment.

She broke down into _tears._ Tears. She's come of age now. She's beyond such childish actions.

"What happened?" Fandral's tone is soft, as if fearing that the slightest raise of his voice will create another onslaught of the water works. _Marvelous._ Her teeth set further into her tongue, but she manages to pull herself away from Loki. She chances a glance towards his face and sees no disgust or bemusement in his eyes. Only sympathy and concern.

Some of the tightness in her chest eases with relief.

Sif clutches her arm close to her chest and looks up towards the others. They've all taken various positions on the ground around in a semicircle. Volstagg is dully picking at the weeds, but Hogun and Fandral are staring at her. Sif chances a glance towards the direction of the house in the distance, her stomach clenching. The Weeping Siren has not attempted to make a return, but instead is lingering in the home. Sif suspects that she'll be there for a while. Sif hasn't seen her that furious before. Annoyed and self righteous, yes; but not true _anger._ That burned like the Eternal Flame and wouldn't go out even if she dumped a sea of water on top of it.

"She…" Sif tastes blood. She swallows, clamping down on her voice. "Mother had children. Of her womb." Her arm burns with the touch of the Weeping Siren clamping down on it and hissing at her to tell no one. She's afraid, but she can't keep this to herself.

Loki stiffens and the others' eyes widen. "She...it...what?" Fandral finally manages to get out. "Are they locked up there? In that house? By the Norns if she's keeping children captive up there I will personally remove her spine and—"

"They're dead." Sif interrupts. "I don't know how. Or when. But when I asked about it she—" her eyes squeeze shut. She exhales. _This is not the worst thing the Siren has done since you got here. Stop being such a babe._ "She struck me and told me to leave. I overreacted. Please...accept my apology."

"Sif," Volstagg sighs, "you've done nothing wrong."

"I'm not a little girl anymore," Sif insists, "tears are for youth."

"No, they're not." Volstagg shakes his head, brow furrowed. "Even the strongest person reaches their limit at some point. You've nothing to be ashamed over. _Tears are not weakness._ "

It doesn't feel like that, but she doesn't want to fight Volstagg on it. She nods with agreement; though she suspects he knows she's fibbing it. Loki sighs softly and shifts, getting up to his feet. "I'll go see if there's something in the barn we can use to wrap your arm. Maybe craft a sling of sorts."

"Do you think we can use it if we find it?" Fandral questions dubiously.

"Mother is caring," Loki's words are barely above a mocking sneer, but Sif knows it's not directed at Fandral, but the creature itself. There's an undertone of terror laced into the tone that assures her the words are more for his benefit than theirs. All of them keep pretending there's nothing wrong with this. How much further do they go before the masks crumple completely?

"If she wants to see Sif use the arm again, she'll let us." Loki finishes.

"I'll come with you," Hogun says, rising to his feet steadily. The Snake Prince nods and the two vanish into the large building, the darkness seeming to swallow them. A pit digs itself at the base of her stomach and she releases out a clenched breath, forcing herself to remain steady. More and more recently she's found herself uncomfortable with letting any of them slip out of her sight.

_They're fine. Stop being a nagging old maid._

"Are you sure you're alright?" Volstagg questions softly. Sif lifts her heavy eyes to his tired ones and releases a quiet sigh.

"Is anyone?"

"Your face is bruising." Fandral notes, expression clenched. Sif lifts her hand up towards her face and presses at her cheek. The skin stings beneath her touch and she squeezes her eyes shut. _She wants to go home._

"What can be done?" Sif questions quietly. "We're not exactly in the best position to fight back."

"You _saved_ her life, Sif." Fandral whispers. "That would have struck her in the head. We could...we could have—"

"Have _what?"_ Sif snaps, lifting her gaze up to his heatedly. "Even if we kill her, where are we supposed to go? We're in the middle of the Blodig Skog. _Where will we go?_ We don't have a map. We _need_ the creature, as much as all of us hate that! What else was I supposed to do!?"

Fandral flicks his gaze away from hers, releasing out a huffed breath of anger, but she knows he agrees with her. Volstagg sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. The silence settles between them, heavy. Uncomfortable. Sif clenches her jaw and tucks her arm close to her stomach.

A loud snapping noise and what might be a muffled yell stops her train of thought and she turns around to look at the barn with confusion. "What was that?"

" _Hogun!_ " Loki's voice pierces through the silence in a strangled sort of yell and Sif's on her feet before the syllable has finished. What happened!? Has the Weeping Siren returned!? Did she not approve of their searches? Did something attack them!? _What!?_

She moves towards the barn quickly. Her jaw aches from how tightly her teeth are pressing together. Volstagg and Fandral are barely two steps behind her, and together they enter the wooden building. The floor creaks beneath her feet, much the same as it had earlier, and her leg muscles clench with discomfort.

They quickly move towards the back where Loki is on his knees, looking down into some sort of deep pit. The light is swallowed down there, leaving nothing but an inky blackness. "What is going on?" she demands, moving towards the hole rapidly when she doesn't see Hogun. Is...is he down _there?_

_Please no._

"We—we were just...he moved towards it and it fell and he's—" Loki tries to explain, but his words aren't coming out right. He's stuttering. The Snake Prince looks back at the hole. " _Hogun!"_

Fandral releases a loud swear behind her. The hole is easily large enough to fit two or three people through, broken brittle wood snapped at the edges, nails and rope helplessly hanging off as if apologetic they couldn't bare the weight anymore. If Sif squints, she can see evidence of two hinges and assumes that this must have been some sort of trapdoor before it broke.

But leading to _what?_

Who builds a barn on top of...of this. It's not quite a well, but seems deep enough to touch the center of Vanaheim.

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Hogun calls back and her heart beats a normal rhythm in relief. "Just a little winded!"

"Is anything broken?" Volstagg demands, leaning over the edge. The boards are creaking beneath their combined weight and Sif has to dig her fingers into the wood to stop herself from pulling everyone forcefully away lest they join the Vanir warrior at the bottom.

"Beyond a few planks? No." Hogun promises. His voice is echoing slightly, which is odd. "I think you need to get down here. Bring a light."

"What?" Sif sputters. "What on the Nine are you talking about? Isn't it just some sort of wine cellar?"

In a barn? Sif. _Really? (_ What else is it supposed to be!?)

"No." Hogun says firmly. "Bring a light. _Now."_

"Really, Hogun, your dramatics are far from—" Fandral starts in a soft sigh.

" _Bring. A. Light."_ Hogun demands harshly. Sif bites at her lower lip and turns to look at the Snake Prince. Praying that Hogun didn't hit his head and is leading them on a pointless search, she gives a slight nod when her prince meets her eyes.

Loki scrambles away from the edge and grabs one of the rusted lamps on the wall and pulls it down. Sif softly despairs, but refuses to visibly hang her head. They don't have a way to create a fire. A light source is in their dreams now. But Hogun demands it all the same. What is _down_ there that he wants to see so badly? At least this explains the creaking wood.

Loki pats down his pants, spinning several times before stopping on one of the pockets and fumbles to pull something out before throwing it at Volstagg. "Here." He says, thrusting the lamp out towards the warrior. "I'm terrible with it anyway."

Volstagg catches the item— _items_ and Sif feels something in her throat constrict. The flint and steel. From all those weeks (months? Years?) ago. Loki had it on his person the whole time. She can't remember any instances where it would have been helpful, and maybe, in between everything else, it just hadn't occurred to him to tell them he still had it.

Something close to shame coils up next to her collar bones as she recalls the last conversation they'd had over the flint and steel. They'd been mocking their prince, as per usual. She can't believe half of what they'd said they'd actually _spoken._

Norns, that feels like a lifetime ago.

Volstagg strikes the flame after a few tries and the meager supply of oil inside takes. It immediately casts away any of the shadows lingering on the edges of the room and Sif can see her feet. They're bloody and pale, much like everywhere else.

She lifts her gaze up and sucks at her gums. "I'll go first," she offers, "give me the lamp."

"Sif...I...with your arm, maybe that's not the best idea…" Fandral starts to protest, but she shoots him a sharp glare and takes the lamp from Volstagg. She's already spent too much of today playing the part of helpless. She can enter a _hole._ It's not that difficult, there's hardly any thinking involved.

The three of them look like they might start protesting so she turns and stands as close to the edge as she dares. "How far is the drop?" she questions Hogun.

"Enough to hurt." He warns. "There's a ladder to your right, but it's old. It might not bare weight. I'll try and catch you."

Reassured, she nods and shifts until she can see the first rung. The ladder is made of wood and thin rope. Her lips press together. Under normal circumstances, it would have been out of the question on whether or not she'd be stupid enough to try and use it. These are not normal circumstances. Hogun still hasn't told them what's down there...and he sounded worried.

Tucking her broken hand close to her chest and positioning the lamp awkwardly against her elbow, she carefully maneuvers herself onto the first rung. The ladder protests, wood groaning beneath her. _Please don't break, please don't break, please don't—_ She sets her jaw and refuses to look at Fandral, Volstagg, or Loki. She knows she'll see them anxiously fluttering there and she's _going down this ladder._

It holds her weight. She has to go down nearly six rungs before she spots her shield-brother. Hogun's nose is bleeding dully and his face is covered in grime, but he looks otherwise unharmed. His hands are raised, muscled coiled in preparation should she fall.

She climbs down. The air is thick with must, rot, and some sort of water source. It's awful. Worse than the cellar, and she wasn't sure if such an achievement could be met. The strangest thing is that air keeps drifting past her face as if _moving._ A draft. If this is a room, that shouldn't be possible.

Idly, in the back of her mind, she wonders what they will do if the Weeping Siren catches them here. She shoves the thought to the side because she knows what the answer would be, and she'd rather not ponder it any further.

Her foot at last brushes empty air and her stomach clenches as she realizes there aren't any more rungs, the rope is broken beneath this point. Jumping off from this angle would almost certainly mean landing on her broken arm, but she can't lower herself either because of the lamp. Apparently having realized this, Hogun's hands encircle her waist to help her down, releasing her once her bare feet have touched the cold stone.

Sif looks up, "Alright, I'm down!" she calls.

She glances around their surroundings. The lamp does wonders for vision improvement. This isn't a basement. Or a cellar. Or even the remains of a well, as her conjectures had first assumed.

It's…

_It's—_

Her stomach clenches with disbelief and a little noise escapes from the back of her throat. Is she dreaming this? Has she finally lost her mind to insanity and this is the escape that she offers herself? It seems almost too good to be true. After weeks (months? years?) of ignorance from the higher powers, and this is how they finally show their good graces.

It's a set of tunnels. A natural born cave, if she's guessing right. And there's a draft of wind. Wind means an exit. _Maybe it opens up out inside the Blodig Skog._ She hates the way that excitement claws up to greet the despair with a firm slap to the back and show it an exit. The dome the Weeping Siren created makes it impossible to leave.

If she knows about this…

If she thought to expand the boundary to these tunnels...then the game is up.

_But if she hadn't…_

She grabs at Hogun's arm, both of them staring into the expanse of darkness with wide eyes. "Is this real?" she questions breathlessly. The stabbing pain of her ribs and the ache of her arm assures her this is the case, but she doesn't _know._

Hogun shakes his head, unable to formulate the proper words.

Loki lands with a soft _thump_ and both of them turn to look as he inhales sharply. "Oh." He whispers, moving to stand beside them. His green eyes are rapidly searching back and forth across the dozens of entryways leading in almost every direction. " _Oh."_

"Well, don't leave us in the dark!" Fandral demands from up top, "Someone needs to keep watch and get you fools out of there. What do you see?"

"Tunnels." She whispers.

" _What?"_ Volstagg demands.

"Tunnels!" She shouts up, looking towards the top of the hole. It's a lot further up than she thought it would be. The fact that Hogun walked away in one piece is nothing short of a miracle. That's easily two stories.

"You— _what?"_ Fandral questions, his voice laced with as much disbelief as she feels. "Did you say ' _tunnels'_!?"

Loki takes the lamp from off the crook of her arm wordlessly, moving towards a tunnel and taking several steps inside, a hand raised in front of him and waving back and forth. His steps are slow and hesitant, but strangely sluggish as well. _He's dying,_ her mind reminds sharply, _he's dying and exhausted because of it._

Sif's jaw grows more taut as she recalls this. He's almost deep enough to have vanished completely when he turns around and races back towards them. Sif keeps her arm clutched next to her chest trying to ignore the sensation of bones shifting inside and stares at the Snake Prince when he comes close enough.

Loki eyes are wide and face pale. He looks like he's seen something lurking in the dark and she's about to take a step forward to ask what it is, but Loki drops the lantern. It clatters, echoing loudly in the space and Sif winces. The light still burns strongly, but it casts long shadows from the floor.

"Oh, Norns," the Snake Prince whispers.

"Loki?" Sif questions softly.

"Sif! I'm serious! Did you say 'tunnel'?" Fandral demands from above. She ignores him. His question doesn't seem as important as everything else right now. Loki mutters something under his breath before looking up so he can meet her and Hogun's stare.

"It's not there." Loki says, voice raising some. He gestures vaguely around them. "The barrier. It's like this buzz in sedir—the Aetheitin hasn't stopped my ability to sense it—I just...it's not _here._ Mother didn't know to block it or she didn't."

Her breath catches. "So you're saying…"

"The tunnels go on for what I suspect is miles," Loki continues, rubbing at his face tiredly, "but if I could get the Blodig Skog's map from my cache, then we could leave. Navigation wouldn't be a problem."

_They can leave._

_This is an exit._

_They found their out._

"Oh." Hogun voices. The relief in his tone is unmistakable. "We just need to get you your sedir, find the right timing and then we can leave?"

Loki gives a shaky nod. "I hope. I'm...I'm not as certain as I would be if I wasn't...if the sedir wasn't…" he trails, fists tightening briefly. Releasing a stiff exhale, he leans down to grab at the handle for the lantern. "We just need to wait until we can slip out of Mother's grasp..."

She can't wrap her head around this. It seems too good to be true. Nothing like what has been their reality for weeks (months? years?) now. Her voice still contains her shock, even with her attempts to mask it, "And then we're free."

* * *

_"It can't be that easy."_

-Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: September 20th. (Ish). ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: tries to get this chapter below 6K.
> 
> Chapter: Nah, my dude, we need to reach above 35 pages at least.
> 
> Me: Tries harder to keep the chapter shorter. "These last few chapters are going to be enormous if you don't stop wording!"
> 
> Chapter: Well, that's not my fault, is it?
> 
> Me: ;l *eye-twitching*
> 
> Okay, that aside: Thanks so much for your interest guys! You're all amazing. I wish I could express properly express how much it means to me, but I'm pretty word-less. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine
> 
> Warnings: Violence, past child death.

* * *

It starts—and it ends—with soup.

Time means nearly nothing, but Sif fairly certain it must have been at least two weeks since they discovered the tunnels when the Weeping Siren bursts into the basement alight with laughter. She's smiling in a way that makes Sif nauseous and holding some sort of large blanket.

"My children!" she exclaims, "We have much fun prepared for this day. Up, up, up! You miss the sun, little birds!"

"Good." A rather sour part of her mutters, but she nonetheless rolls up and attempts to get out of bed. Her limbs have felt heavy as of late, like all her energy is spent on breath, and there's none to spare for anything else. Her heart is aching beneath its cage, a constant, unhappy companion.

Wait.

The Weeping Siren said " _fun"._

What constitutes as _fun_ for her?

"Come, come," the Weeping Siren presses, clambering up the ladder again, "we celebrate today. It's very special."

Sif shares an apprehensive look with Fandral before making her way up to the surface. The sun is overcast with clouds, and Sif silently pleads with the sky to be merciful and rain only while they sleep. She hates working in the rain. None of the storms have been as terrible as that first one, but even a drizzle can leave her wet and miserable for days.

The Weeping Siren is laying out the blanket on top of the small patch of grass near the tables, and Sif is admittedly thrown by this change in routine. The Weeping Siren, if nothing else, is a creature of habit, and this is odd for them to be doing something else.

The Weeping Siren waves them forward. Sif doesn't want to move, but her feet follow the command anyway.

"Sit." The Siren instructs, pointing to the blanket. "Today is a good, _good_ day." She promises. The more she says that, the worse implications Sif gets.

Sif forces herself to sit down on the blanket, taking a seat in between Loki and Volstagg. The Weeping Siren hums as she buses herself with something, passing out several bowls of a weird looking sludge. It reminds Sif vaguely of a smashed fruit on Asgard and a wash of homesickness crashes into her. (Was it real? Was Asgard ever _real?_ Did she dream it up?)

"Today we celebrate the sixth year since I began to collect my family." The Weeping Siren announces and sits down in front of them, a glass in hand. Sif suspects it isn't full of anything stronger than acidic water, but she raises it like it's fine wine. "A toast. To our happiness proceeding onwards for many more years."

Years. Oh, Norns, _no._ That's insane. Sif's not staying here for—

Six.

_Six!?_

Didn't they start chasing the Weeping Siren at _five!?_

No. _No, no, no._ They can't have been here for an entire _year._ It's been a long time, but not a _year._ That's too long. A year? Thor will have given up the search for them. Asgard will have likely declared them dead after seeing Prince Tjan's guard. They would have already had funerals if that is the case. Her parents won't be there to welcome her with open arms if they get out of here. Years. She can't—they can't—

 _It hasn't been a year._ Has it? These days are long and the weeks even longer. A year could have slipped away and they wouldn't know. _IT HAS_ NOT _BEEN A YEAR!_ Sif can see a few months, easily. Weeks without a question, but not a year. That's impossible. No. They haven't been captives for a year. It's too long. Their escape is so close. It couldn't have taken a year.

Sif finds herself tipping her bowl back (did she raise it in the toast!? She's going to be sick if she did) and nearly chokes on the liquid as it flushes down her throat. It's bitter, but hot. Almost like trying to drink warm acid, or scalding tea.

The Weeping Siren releases a gentle laugh at something someone said, smiling and nodding eagerly. "Today we have no chores," the Weeping Siren promises, "we celebrate and are happy together instead. As a family. A holiday."

Shame.

Sif really would have liked the distraction of the chores to keep her from thinking.

The day passes slowly, and the longer the hours wane on, the worse she feels. It starts as a slight headache, and then builds into a tickle at the back of her throat, her stomach tightening, bile digging into the roof of her mouth, the world spins and Sif's muscles are weak. She's barely made it past midday before she collapses in the middle of the game they were supposed to be playing and vomits all over the earth.

Her limbs are shaking. Her recently healed arm doesn't seem able to bare weight anymore.

Tears burn the corners of her eyes and she dry heaves, spitting up any remains of what was in her stomach. She looks up, trying to find assistance or reassurance in a familiar face, but realizes that several others are on the ground, vomiting themselves. The Weeping Siren looks at a loss, standing in the middle of their group with her head tilted.

Sif dry heaves again.

Loki collapses in the corner of her eye. Fandral's hand lands on her shoulder, but his words blur together and she can make no sense of them. She tries to tell him this, but only ends up throwing up again.

Her headache grows in volume and her airway tightens.

She thinks she's going to pass out.

She doesn't. But she isn't the last to go. The Weeping Siren cuts everything short, rushing them back to the cellar with panicked words falling off her lips, platitudes not far behind. She criticizes them for their stupidity and then laments her own.

"I knew it was rotten," she mutters as she wrings a wet rag to lay on Sif's forehead to care for the fever, "but I had thought it would not cause so many problems. It has been collected before in the rain without being _bad._ "

Food poisoning. Sif wants to laugh at this as it clicks in her head. They've endured weeks (months?) of this torture and it's not the starvation or the brutal hand of the creature that kills them, but her poor cooking skills. A deranged giggle does slip past her lips and the Weeping Siren shushes her.

"Daughter, rest. You will feel better shortly, I swear to you." The Weeping Siren instructs and lays her fingers against Sif's forehead. Her fingers are cold to the touch, and she leans forward to press a kiss against Sif's brow before she whispers, " _Sleep."_

000o000

"Amma! _Amma—please!"_

Sif jerks awake, brain sluggish and limbs even more so. The words make sense, but she can't register a meaning, just a sense of panic. She blinks several times, limbs shifting in an effort to move to see the source of the commotion.

"It is the night, my son, and you know that we must do the Aethetin now." The Weeping Siren's voice is soft, but clearly frustrated. "Comply now or I'll have to make you hold still."

"It hurts," Loki gasps. With far more effort than Sif thinks it should take, she manages to roll onto one side, looking at the two with a familiar sense of disgust in her gut. It's been a long, _long_ time since Loki tried to fight the creature about this. Her feet shift.

Sif blinks at the strangeness of this concept and then realizes that the Weeping Siren didn't chain her foot to the edge of the bed. A glance towards Loki's feet reveals the same for him. This means something. Something important, but Sif can't figure out what it is just yet. She wants to throw up again. Her gut has not yet finished its punishment for her.

There's light streaming into the cellar from more than the awful candles. Sif's gaze keeps being drawn back to it, where the ladder is down and the trapdoor open on the top. It must be the evening judging by the lighting, perhaps early in the morning. Sif doesn't know. She's not sure if she _cares._ All she wants to do is sleep some more and throw up again.

"I know," the Weeping Siren promises, "but I'm here. I'll soothe the ache."

"I'm d-d-ying," Loki makes a strangled noise, "please. I hate needles. _Please._ They used one to sew my lips up, did you know that? It bled everywhere and I couldn't taste anything but blood for months. It makes me panic. I want to go home...I want...to go..."

"You _are_ home, foolish child." The Siren promises, her voice gains a melodic edge, " _Stop moving your arm, dearest."_

Loki's movements stop. It was only his arm that was commanded, but Sif suspects he gave up the fight. A moan slips from his lips and he makes a hiccuped noise. "Amma. Amma please come save us." He whispers. " _Please…"_

"I _did_ save you." The Siren has stopped, tilting her head. "Child? My son? Why do you ask such strange questions? Why do you doubt Mother so?"

" _Shut up."_ Loki's voice is hollow. The words snap through the air, cutting and biting. Sif feels something in her gut clench with horror at how the Weeping Siren goes rigid. "My mother is on Asgard," Loki whispers, "because Asgard wasn't a _dream._ She's waiting for-for us to c-come back. The All-Mother. _You_ are just a barbaric scavenger of lost souls."

The Weeping Siren sets the unused needle to the side, back straight, muscles rigid. Sif's breath catches in her throat and she tries to move, tries to _will_ Loki to shut up, because if he says something else, the creature is going to snap, and Sif doesn't know what the outcome will be.

" _You are not my mother._ " Loki whispers.

The Weeping Siren makes a gasping noise of pain and anger, face contorting with twisted rage. Something inside of Sif flinches away from it. A hollow sort of dread setting in her stomach. Her head is heavy. She can't get her limbs to work right. Or move. But the creature—

Something isn't right.

The Weeping Siren's hand snakes out and grabs Loki by the throat. He struggles weakly, making a wretched sort of gagging noise before the woman hauls him up and throws him into the far wall. Sif makes a noise as something cracks when it hits the stone. Loki.

_Loki._

No.

 _No._ She didn't survive all of this, dragging herself and the others through this horror only for the Weeping Siren to kill Loki before they can go home. Sif struggles to fight, to get up, to do _something,_ but she can't. The Weeping Siren is advancing towards Loki rapidly now, and all she can do is shove herself up a little and then tumble because of how the world spins.

A few of the children are beginning to cry. She thinks she hears her other shield-brothers attempting to make a vocal protest for what is about to come. She hadn't realized she was the only one awake.

"You wretched, ungrateful child!" the Siren screeches, backhanding the Snake Prince hard enough to send him tumbling to the ground when he tries to get up. Loki is still sobbing with pain, and Sif feels something inside of her urge her to move harder.

"Am-A-Amma," Loki gasps out in a strangled heave. "T-Thor…"

The Weeping Siren slams a boot into his ribs. Then again. And again. The sound is becoming almost numbing. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._ The Siren wails, "I have given everything for you! This is what you give me in return!? I am a good mother. I am your _only_ mother, you disgusting filth! How have you not realized that no _one is coming!? You don't need anyone to come!_ Norns curse it, I'll _KILL THIS ALL-MOTHER! I AM YOUR MOTHER, YOU WRETCH!_ "

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk—_

_Snap!_

Loki screams.

Sif rolls up, an inner drive of panic rearing her onward. _Loki. Loki. Loki._ It's the only part of her thoughts that make sense, the only one that matters. Someone has to help him. Sif manages to sit up right, moving towards the commotion. The Weeping Siren is still sputtering out truths of her twisted mind, but it hardly matters.

Sif slams into the ground on her hands and knees and feels the horrible urge to vomit again. The world is spinning and the edges of her vision are dark. _Dehydration, malnutrition, weakened immune system, unrecovered from recent bout of illness…_ the list goes on, unhelpful, but it's all her brain can seem to do _properly_ right now.

As if a list of _her_ problems will save Loki!

Sif attempts to move and feels tears of frustration burn her vision when nothing is happening. Loki is _dying,_ and she can't do anything. She's too weak. Too sick. Too late. A shadow passes near her, moving towards Loki's abandoned bed, but it doesn't seem important.

_Please, please, please…_

Go. Move. Up.

Loki.

_Go! Move! Up!_

Loki.

Go—

The Weeping Siren lets out a piercing wail that comes to an abrupt halt, and a body smacks against the hard stone a moment later. Sif whips her head up, trembling and shaking to see Fandral standing beside the woman's fallen body, holding nothing. She can't tell if it's because of her blurring vision, but the warrior appears to be visibly shaking.

Breath hard and fast, Sif scrambles up to her feet as best she can, latching onto the edge of the bedframe for support. "What—" she swallows, "what did you _do?"_

"The syringe." Fandral's voice is barely audible. Sif flicks her gaze down to see the Weeping Siren trembling and making weak noises. The syringe she was going to inject Loki with is sticking out of her left arm, still half full, but the little amount she received appears to have been enough. Her eyes are open, but unseeing, and Sif wonders if this is what Loki looked like that first night so long ago. She saw nearly every night after that, but never the first, never—

_Loki!_

Sif moves. Hardly thinking, not breathing, but moving. She passes Fandral, who starts after her, but she tumbles to her knees beside their second prince first. Loki's not moving. His hands are slack against his head where he was attempting to cover it for protection. His knees are drawn in towards his chest, but it didn't seem to help much.

His breathing sounds off, but his lower left leg is what took the brunt of the damage. She suspects with a sick sort of fascination as she stares at the disformed area that it must be the source of the snapping noise. She doesn't want to touch him, afraid that she might damage him further.

Rage burns the edges of her hands, begging recompense for what has been done to her shield-brother. To her _prince_. The Weeping Siren did this to him. If she'd felt better, if it had been weeks (months?) ago when her strength was full and she was not starved and sick, she would have strangled the creature with her bare hands for daring to do this.

As is, she doesn't.

She only panics, feeling a helpless sort of bubble wrap around her chest and squeeze.

"Loki." Sif's voice is hoarse. Fandral tumbles down beside her, using her shoulder for support to stay upright. The Snake Prince doesn't answer. Doesn't shift. Doesn't acknowledge her in anyway. Her panic rises. " _Loki."_

She reaches a shaking hand out and grabs his shoulder as gently as he can. He flinches away from her, but the touch seems to have summoned life back into his body. With a wheezy gasp, Loki curls in tighter towards himself, a shudder racing across his to-thin frame.

"Loki." Her voice breaks. She can't seem to say anything else but his name.

"My prince, please," Fandral begs, "you've no reason to be afraid, it's just us. Calm down. We—"

Loki lurches upwards and launches himself at them. Sif's first reaction is to lurch away, but the Asgardian only wraps his arms around her shoulders and buries himself into her arms, a trembling, sobbing mess. "S-Sif." Norns, he sounds so _young._ How easy it is to forget his true age. "P-p-please...something's...ss-something's wrong...i-inside and I—"

She tightens her arms around him. "You'll be fine. Breathe."

Volstagg's hand grips her other shoulder and she looks up from Loki's raven hair to the warrior, a question on her lips. Volstagg's eyes are wide, but he's steady. The other children are on their feet behind him, and Hogun is holding his sister and another of those who can't stand on their own right now.

"Sif," Volstagg's voice is hollow, "we need to leave. _Now."_

Her breath stutters. Escape. Escape has seemed like a wispy _dream_ since that first day.

Escape.

She looks. The Siren is incapacitated on the floor, syringe still sticking out of her skin. The ladder is down. All of the children are gathered together in one place, unlike these last few weeks. They know where the tunnels are. They have to go. _Now._ This is the only way, and the only _time._ Who knows when—if ever—they'll get a chance like this again?

Sif turns to Fandral, "Can you take him?" she whispers, head tipping towards their prince. Her arm may have tentatively healed, but the slightest strain makes the bone waver as if it intends to give out and she can't carry him if she's broken.

Fandral nods, and moves to gently pull Loki from Sif's arms. He gasps and flinches with pain, but allows Fandral to heave him upwards without complaint. His face is bruising. Sif looks back at the Weeping Siren and feels anger warm her stomach. She wants to do permanent damage. Wants to make the creature ache like she's made them hurt, but she's afraid. Her limbs are shaking.

Sif forces herself forward.

She encourages the younger children forward, "Go, go, go—" she whispers, trying to move them. Some of them are standing still as if they will be punished for trying to leave. As if they don't _want_ to. Sif's chest hurts.

Volstagg helps her, herding the lost children towards the ladder. "We're just going for a fun adventure, is all." He promises. "Come, little ones, we're a little hard pressed for time."

Who knows how long the Weeping Siren will be incapacitated?

"But Mother will be angry," Li whispers. "I don't want—"

"Mother won't be doing us any harm." Volstagg quickly promises. "She's not going to catch us. How about we play a little game, alright? The faster you can run the more you'll win. Come; up, up," Sif keeps looking back at the Weeping Siren, expecting her to leap up at any given point and drag them down.

There's ten children up.

Nine to go, and then herself, Hogun, and Volstagg. She didn't see Fandral leave with Loki, but assumes that he must have. The Weeping Siren's eyes have a glassy edge to them. They're staring towards them, unseeing.

Sif's skin crawls the longer she focuses on the gaze and she pulls it away.

Five.

Three.

"Li, my brother, please," Sif whispers, gripping the son's shoulder. She tries to urge him towards the ladder, but he won't budge. He keeps looking at the Siren with wide eyes. He, like her, doesn't seem to believe that this is _real._ "We will keep you safe. Do you not want to see your family?" Sif questions.

"This is my family." Li says in a hushed voice, "I don't know...I don't know how to live anywhere else. How can we leave Mother? I don't...I'm afraid, Sif, please."

Sif forces herself to inhale and clenches her fists to stop her hands from trembling so much. She kneels down so she's eye level with the child and tries to offer a reassuring smile. "We'll be fine. Nothing bad will happen, I swear. We've been thinking about this for a while now, we have a plan."

Sort of, but Li doesn't need to know how circumstantial everything is.

"Do you swear?" Li questions. He won't stop giving her that wide-eyed look. Sif sees Hogun urge the other two up the ladder and climb up himself. Volstagg still remains at the foot, waiting for her. Sif grits her teeth and does her best not to rattle the child back and forth until he realizes how foolish staying in this prison would be.

 _He's a child,_ she reminds herself. _He doesn't understand._

"Li, everything will be fine." Sif promises, keeping as much conviction as she can into the tone. "We need to leave. Please. We won't leave you behind, but we really can't stay here much longer. Mother could awaken soon."

 _That_ at least seems to settle with the son because he flicks his gaze back to the Siren before, at last, moving towards the ladder. Relief washes through her and she rises up to her full height. Volstagg gestures wordlessly for her to go first and he follows behind.

Sif breaks the top, hand clawing at the grass and she heaves herself upright. She can't seem to get herself to breathe deep enough. She hates how _guilty_ she feels for doing this, as if she's broken some sort of oath and has to now face the consequences. The thought is ludicrous. She's done nothing _wrong. (It feels like she has. Norns, she should go back—)_

The children are gathered around Hogun and Fandral, the latter of which has one of Loki's arms swung over his shoulders. Sif doesn't know why Loki's standing. He shouldn't be, but it—just...they don't have time for this anymore. They need to _go._

_(Do they? Is it really that bad, here? What will Mother—)_

Volstagg joins her from behind and they all stand there for a moment longer before Fandral exhales audibly. "Let's go."

000o000

They make it to the tunnels without much trouble. They're all still sick and several of the children have to stop to expel their insides again, but Sif tries to remain as patient as she can with this and makes a mental list of things they can reach before they get to the barn. Food. Water. Light. Weapons. Sif doesn't know where the Siren kept the things she stole from them, and they don't have the time to peruse.

Volstagg manages to locate the three empty canteens in the barn they'd found last week and Sif gathers as much of the stray wheat as she can while they run through the fields. There's a water source somewhere down in the tunnels, if the dank smell is any indication. None of them have been back since that first venture. The Weeping Siren had already started coming back by the time they'd realized what it was and rounded them all up to work again with more heat than before.

They all but shove the children down the hole, gathering lanterns and lighting them with shaky hands. Loki grabs her arm when she's on her fifth lantern and she looks towards him with wide eyes. Her senses are heightened, listening for the creature, but there's nothing. (Why is there still nothing!?)

"The barn." Loki manages to squeeze out. Fandral adjusts to keep him upright, and Sif sees the swordmaster gripping the stick he found and is currently wielding as a sorry excuse for a sword harder. "Light it on fire." Loki finishes after a few attempts at speaking.

Sif stares at him for a long second, looking down at the lamp before staring at the wood. It's flammable. "We'll leave a trail." She whispers in protest.

"It's meager protection." Loki argues. "Even _she_ can't be impenetrable to fire."

And...and unless the creature knows about a different entrance, it will give them a few hours of a head start. Especially if it spreads to the field. Sif nods and releases a shaky breath, turning to Fandral and handing him the lamp. "Get down. I'll set the spark."

They nod and Loki limps towards the entrance shooting her a final glance before awkwardly starting his way down the ladder. Fandral's light vanishes as he follows. Sif releases a deep, shaking breath and moves towards the entrance of the barn with the flint and steel and scraping the two against each other. Her hands are shaking too much to have an effect.

She lit five lanterns before now and she can't—

A soft swear escapes her and Sif moves towards the back again and grabs one of the remaining lanterns. She dumps the oil all over the entrance and scrapes the sparks towards it. Unlike the wood, it takes almost immediately and Sif watches the fire greedily eat up the oil and then the wood beneath.

Sif stands there for a long moment, staring at the flames and then the land beyond. Her jaw tightens and she parts her lips with effort. "Rot in Helheim, Mother. It's the only place you're going when your soul is claimed."

She turns and walks back to the tunnels' entrance.

She doesn't look back at the flames beginning to clamber up the walls happily.

000o000

It's dark. Darker than Sif first expected, even with their light. Without the map—Loki doesn't have the strength to find it in his cache yet—they don't have an immediate knowledge of where to turn, so they follow the draft of air. The nineteen children huddle around them, jumping at the slightest noises, their breaths hard and fast.

Sif would try and calm them, but she can't get her own heart to stop racing.

The minutes tick by and the Weeping Siren doesn't come. Then the hours. The tenseness in her shoulders slowly begins to ease, a hopeful disbelief settling where the fear was _(is)_. They're actually leaving. They're making progress in that direction. After so many days blurring into nothingness, they are _going._

They'll see Asgard again. ( _They're going home.)_

The long hours draw out as they walk. Sif's feet are aching, bloody, and bruising from how many times she's smashed them into rocks she wasn't expecting or cut them against the rough stone. She has never longed for shoes more than now. She's certain they're going to be a bloody, swollen mass when she finally stops to look down at them. Whenever that will be.

She tries to be brave. Norns, she tries, but every time there's a scuffle she wasn't expecting or a noise in the distance none of them can place, her heart stumbles inside her chest and screams in panic.

She's not brave. Not _now._ Her lantern is hardly the shield and spear she was trained with. These are not weapons of the Einherjar. If the Weeping Siren does catch them, all they're going to have to fight her off is a few sticks, rocks, and their lamps. It's almost nothing.

Conversation is sparse and only brought up when strictly necessary. Sif can hear the sniffles of the little one's tears as they walk on, but they can't stop to offer comfort. She's not even sure how. They're weeping. Weeping into the dark and Sif feels an urge to laugh at the irony of this.

"Sif," Hogun pulls up beside her—she doesn't remember when she walked up to the front, maybe she's always been here—his tone hushed. It doesn't matter. Without the white noise to block it off, he could have shouted with the same effect.

She glances at him expectantly, making sure she can still feel the faint trace of wind on her face when they move. Hogun lowers his voice even more, "Everyone is exhausted. We need to rest."

Her mind immediately protests at this, throwing up lists and charts in a frantic manner of why that's a terrible idea. She shakes her head. "Hogun, I don't know…" she argues, "we can't let Mother catch up to us. If we stop then—"

"Sister, we _need_ to stop." Hogun says evenly. Now that she's looking, she can see the exhaustion in his stance and guilt squirms its way into her gut. She's pushed through the need for rest because she's afraid of what will happen if they stop, but maybe this isn't the best course of action. "A few hours of rest and then we can pick up. We can't walk the distance of the Blodig Skog in one night."

"I know. Alright. A few hours." Sif submits at last and sighs, gathering her nerves together. She stops and turns around and looks back at the group. Hollow, frightened faces meet her gaze. "We're going to stop for a few hours, catch up on some sleep, alright?"

Several of the children, already clinging to each other's hands, grab harder. "That's a bad idea." One of the daughters whispers. "Mother's already going to be mad we ran away. If she grabs us..."

 _I know,_ Sif wants to promise. _I know, and I'm frightened, too._ She can't say this. It will only make them panic more. She needs to be the adult. She has to be the brave one so they can make to the end of this. "It will be fine," she promises, drawing up a smile. Her lips are exhausted by this.

After a little more wrangling and convincing, Sif and Hogun manage to get all of the children to sit down and she puts the lamps in the middle of the circle to act as some semblance of a fire. They aren't dressed for cave exploration, and Sif's sure that when the adrenaline wares off—if it ever does—they're going to be freezing. With the children settled and Volstagg attempting to keep their attention focused on anything but how miserable they are, she slips towards where Fandral has helped Loki lay down and he and Hogun are fretting over their prince.

She crouches down next to them, gently grabbing at Loki's hand and squeezing it. His eyes dully lift towards hers and his expression flickers for a moment, pain etched into every crease possible before it smooths and he offers a tight smile, returning the pressure on her hand.

"How are you?" she asks in a whisper. It seems oddly inappropriate to speak in tones any louder than that. Fandral snorts and jabs at Loki's shoulder.

"If you say ' _fine'_ again, my prince, I swear you'll be missing some important vital organs soon." He assures in annoyance. Hogun's scalding glare assures Sif that should matters come to that, the Vanir warrior will happily hold Loki down so Fandral can complete the task. "You're not helping anyone."

Loki props himself up on one elbow, a scowl set on his face. "There are nineteen children with us," he intones harshly, "do you honestly think that me admitting that it feels like my heart is exploding and my leg is being torn off is going to help them? They're already afraid. They don't need any more reasons to doubt us. They'll go running back to Mother."

Sif bites at her lower lip, resting her head in her hands. She swears under her breath and bites on the tip of her finger when she realizes he's right. As awful as their captivity has been, it's been stagnant. It's a reassurance. They could go running back and not have to face these unknowns...and to some that will be more appealing than wandering around in the dark. ( _Why did they leave? Mother will be so furious when she catches them.)_

Sif glances towards Loki's leg and inhales stiffly, swearing again. Norns, that's so much worse than she thought it was. The leg is deformed enough that Sif has her doubts bone _isn't_ sticking out beneath the fabric. There's dried blood making the black fabric strangely reflective and flaky. She bites back bile and squeezes her eyes shut, trying to reassure herself that she's seen worse on the battlefield before.

It doesn't help.

It's somehow different. Maybe it's because they don't have a simple fix for it. They have no healing creams, potions or tonics. Loki is going to have to wait this out until they can get to Ju...or Asgard. (Asgard. _Which is real. It has to be.)_

"We need to set the bone." Hogun says, tone solemn. He's followed Sif's line of sight towards the bone. There's not much else they can do for the wound beyond that. But even if they set it, how are they going to _hold_ the setting? They don't have any sticks or rope to attached to his leg...It doesn't matter. Stuffing the bone back inside of the skin to prevent infection should be a priority. Bacteria can't be their murderer. Especially not to their _prince._

Sif digs her teeth harder into her cheek. Loki's grip tightens on her hand to the point of pain and she startles. She'd forgotten she'd taken his hand in the first place. "No." Loki breathes. " _No._ "

"It's not going to heal right if we don't, my prince. It's an open wound...and the chances of infection are something we need to lessen." Hogun's tone would be rough to anyone unfamiliar with him. Sif can hear the underlying worry and sympathy in it. Loki shakes his head several more times, eyes going wide.

" _Please don't._ " His tone is dangerously close to a whimper.

Sif's heart gives in sympathy and she brushes long, sticky hair away from his forehead. "My prince, it will be okay," she promises softly, "this is a field dressing. We know what we're doing." It's basic medical training for the Einherjar, they can set the broken bone. They don't need to be useless in this endeavor, as they have almost everything else.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut, mouthing "no" several more times.

"Brother?" All of them flinch, looking up at Avil as she and a handful of the others, including Idrissa, gather behind the Vanir warrior with confused and worried faces.

"What, Avil? Is it urgent?" Hogun questions. "Loki needs us to help him with something."

 _To put it mildly._ Avil is quiet a moment, looking at Loki's face with pursed lips. Loki's eyes have opened a sliver to stare at the group of six, his grip still tight in hers. Sif keeps her hand still despite how much it hurts. "Is he okay?" Avil asks. "Mother was very angry with him."

"Loki's…" Fandral trails for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to explain this to someone her age. "He needs us to tend to him."

"I'm fine." Loki promises with a thin, tired smile. His pale complexion and over all exhaustion insists otherwise, but there's not much he can do to hide it.

"Are you dying?" Idrissa asks quietly, wringing her hands anxiously. She looks up at Fandral. "I don' want him to die. If he goes away, is he gonna have to join the dead bodies in here?"

 _The what?_ Dead bodies? Sif didn't see any dead bodies when they did the brief scope of the tunnel before they made their sorry excuse for a camp.

"What?" Sif sputters in confusion.

"What bodies?" Fandral's grip on her shoulder—and when did he start touching her?—tightens sharply. His voice is soft, but his inquiry is sharp. Pressing. _What bodies?_

Avil points north—the direction they'd been heading, but stopped a little over twenty minutes ago—and all of them follow her hand as best they can in the dark. Sif sees blurry shapes, but nothing to suggest a corpse. _Bodies._ (Where did they come from? Did the Weeping Siren…?)

"They're all withered." One of the sons promises with a grimace. "They've been dead a long, _long_ time now. Are we going to have to leave the Prince here when he dies?"

" _No_. He's not dying." Sif says sharply and gets up to her feet, untangling Loki's death grip from hers with some regret. "Show me."

Loki's leg can wait a moment more. If there's a wild beast living down here and it killed someone ( _you know what it was)_...it would be best to know that now, rather than later. Idrissa remains put stubbornly, but the other children guide her towards the bodies.

There's so much demanding her attention. _She just wants to sleep._

Sif grabs one of the lanterns as they pass and once they've crossed a few more yards, Avil stops and points. "See?" She whispers. "Is Loki going to die like them?"

"No—" Sif's voice cuts off. The light casts long shadows, but it doesn't hide the skeletons from view. They've rotted mostly to bone, only a few scarce patches of skin sticking out sorely. The clothing is frayed and old. The most staggering thing is how _young_ the two bodies are. Barely older than Li, she'd guess.

Where did they come from?

They look like they simply sat down and gave up the ghost. Old flower crowns adorn both their heads, the brown color bleeding into the skull. Sif has to remind herself to breathe. Out. Out. In. Out. Where? _When?_ That's the most pressing question. _When?_ Sif's better at estimating with fresh kills, she'd guess over a century for these two. Maybe two.

The flower crown children.

Where did they come from?

The Weeping Siren didn't start...didn't start _collecting_ until five (six) years ago, and if they've been dead for a century, at most, then…

Sif's mind flashes back to the kitchen, standing in front of the counter and looking at the height measurements. Yei and Holland. The Weeping Siren's children of the womb. _It's not a story for your ears._ Bile rises in her throat as the pieces click in a horrid succession. The bones stare back at her, innocent of her thoughts.

_Is that blood?_

_Yes._

_Where are they now?_

_Dead._

A swear slips from her lips and she stares at the corpses for a long moment, frozen. She's not sure what to do. This is _Yei and Holland_. The children of the Weeping Siren's womb. They're here. Dead. Oh, Norns…

_What if they're next?_

The Weeping Siren must know about the tunnels, then. But they haven't been met with any resistance from the barrier, so maybe…(the dead sleep down here) it just doesn't seem _plausible_ for them to have made a complete get away. They need to keep moving, then. The burned barn gave them a heads start, but who knows for how long.

They need to rest.

They need to set Loki's leg.

_They need to move._

"Oh." Sif finally gets out of her strangled throat. She turns to look back at the children slowly, a sudden desire wrapping around her to be as _innocent_ as they are. They don't understand the implications of this. To them, it's just two bodies sitting in a cave system. It means almost nothing. It's not the (maybe) first victims of the Weeping Siren's blood lust.

Prince Tjan's guard was taken in it.

_They never found Thor. What if he, too, has been sitting out in the woods rotting?_

"No. No, Loki won't be joining them." She promises, trying to draw up a smile. There's too much horror sticking to the sides of her face for it to be authentic. If anything, she feels like she frightens them more with her platitude.

Sif herds them back towards the main group, giving Volstagg a side-eyed look of horror and mouths, " _did you see the bodies"_ and points towards the two. Volstagg's head immediately twists in that direction, giving her enough answer. No. He didn't. She keeps walking, not waiting to see his reaction.

Sif lands on her knees harshly beside Fandral, Hogun and Loki, clenching her hands into fists. The three stare at her expectantly for answers and she tries to maintain her plastic smile. It keeps cracking. "Do you...do you remember what we discussed after I broke my arm?" she asks. None of the children were there with that discussion. It's about as vague as she can make it.

All of them still.

Sif gestures towards in the general direction of the corpses, unable to get words out. Hogun pales and Fandral lifts up the back of his hand to his mouth, cussing under his breath. "That's _them?"_

"I'm fairly certain." Sif confirms, biting down sharply on her thumb. "I don't know who else it would be."

"Who's the who?" Idrissa asks, tilting her head. "Wait—you know the names of the bodies?"

 _Yes. Yes, and she's terrified. If the Weeping Siren would do that to a_ child…"No, honey," Sif promises, gently gripping her shoulder. "We might, but it's probably best if you don't know."

"I can handle old stuff." Idrissa says stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest. "'M not a _babe_ anymore."

Sif grits her teeth. They don't have _time_ for this. "Idrissa, will you go talk to Volstagg? He needs you to comfort him, he's scared." Fandral leans down towards the girl, messy hair falling in front of his eyes. "He won't admit it, but he needs a boost of bravery. You can give him that, can't you?"

Idrissa stays still for a moment before looking over at Volstagg and, sighing, moves in the warrior's direction.

"The leg?" Hogun questions, drawing them back. Sif bites at her lower lip, relieved that they aren't going to continue the discussion about what the implications of Yei and Holland being down here mean. She doesn't want to voice her frantic thoughts out loud.

"Leg." Loki sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't—don't count. It makes it worse."

Sif takes Loki's hand again and tries not to be surprised by how warm it is. Loki's usually frigid to the touch, but he's not anymore. What does that mean? Fever? Is he sick? Norns, if that leg gets infected they have no way to get help. Maybe he really _will_ join Yei and Holland down here.

Fandral and Hogun move towards Loki's left leg and Sif turns her gaze away. She doesn't want to watch it. Loki's eyes are still squeezed shut and he holds his breath in anticipation. Sif only has to wait nearly a minute, possibly two, before there's a sickening _crunch_ and Loki gasps sharply, squeezing her hand hard enough it feels like her knuckles are touching.

There's a following _crunch_ and Loki makes a noise in the back of his throat, fresh tears of pain spilling down his face.

"One more time and then I think we'll have everything." Fandral promises. Sif still doesn't look down, focusing on the cave wall across from them with vigor. The third grinding sound follows and Loki sits bolt upright, nearly colliding foreheads with her.

"Stop, _please,"_ Loki pleads, breath ragged. He seems to be biting back a scream and lifts his finger up to his mouth to clamp down on it hard enough he draws blood.

"It's done." Hogun promises. "It's done."

Sif chances a glance towards Loki's leg. The pant leg has been rolled up to his knee revealing the pale skin beneath. Loki's near-white skin is smeared with red, old and fresh blood pooling around an area Sif suspects the bone was sticking out of the skin. _How was he walking?_

Blood is leaking down the side of his calf and some sort of yellowish substance. It's not an infection, almost sand-like, but—"Is...are you bleeding _sedir!?"_ Sif demands, her eyes going wide with horror. There is nothing good about that, is there? _Nothing._ Oh, Norns, what—

"Oh." Loki blinks several times, leaning forward to dip his hand in the substance. It curls around his fingers, "Yes. That's normal. It's blood, remember?" he whispers. He sounds faintly dazed.

"It should be _red."_ Sif hisses. "Why is it _yellow!?"_

"Because...because I don't know." Loki admits, running a hand through his hair. "This is good. I think. If I...if I...if this is happening and I can bleed it, it means that I'm processing it better than I was last time I stopped the...the drug. Or my heart is."

"Does it hurt?" Fandral asks, gesturing towards his chest in reference to Loki.

Loki nods. "Yes. But I...it's hardly capturing the center of my attention...Can I sleep now?" He lifts his gaze up from the floor. "Please?"

"Yes." Sif promises, guiding him back down to the stone. Her mind feels scattered and fragmented. She can't focus on anything, so she tries to keep her attention on this. It's still hard. She wants to throw up again. "We'll wake you in a few hours. Rest."

000o000

Sif gets maybe an hour of sleep between watches and clambers up to her feet herding everyone else forward. She takes the duty of being Loki's impromptu crutch for the day, letting him lean a majority of his weight against her as they hobble forward.

Volstagg manages to find a water source and they drink from it greedily before filling the canteens they snitched from the barn and moving forward. Sif's hyper aware of every noise and swears that she can hear something scuffling after them, but there's always nothing when she looks. Loki is no better, just as frantic and panicked as she is about everything.

They take another break, and then get back up again.

The hours keep passing.

The Weeping Siren isn't coming.

They must have been down here for two, maybe three days when Fandral and Hogun leave to find more water. She sits down next to Volstagg and Loki, trying to tell a story of one of their previous quests to the children, but she can't draw up as much enthusiasm as she would have had a few weeks (months) ago. Slaying a dragon seems so pointless now. Who cares how they gutted it? It was killed. That's the moral of the story.

"Mother used to tell us stories all the time before you came." Li murmurs in admission. "I think she was too busy poisoning Prince Loki afterwards to try it." A sickly part of her is relieved by this. She wouldn't have wanted to hear what kind of bedtime stories the Weeping Siren could come up with.

They put the children to sleep and Volstagg lightly bumps Loki's arm with his elbow. The Snake Prince has been sitting in the same meditative stance for well over two hours now—Hogun and Fandral should be back soon. _Where are they?—_ and it's the first attempt she or Volstagg have made at trying to break him out of it.

Loki doesn't react to the touch. He merely sits there, hands moving back and forth in a slow rhythm. His breath is deep. He seems fine, just distracted.

Sif sighs and plops down next to Volstagg again, resting her head on his shoulder. He adjusts to her weight easily, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"Tired?" Volstagg asks softly.

"Who isn't?" Sif counters rhetorically and then breathes out slowly. "We're going to starve before we make it out of here." She murmurs. The meager amount of food she'd managed to grab at was close to nothing. Even rationed, they've eaten everything.

"We can last a few weeks." Volstagg assures. "There's no need to panic yet."

"We'll be in the cave system for weeks." Sif argues. "We're going nowhere. Volstagg, what are we going to do? We don't even know where we're going beyond away from Mother. We could be going deeper into the Blodig Skog or the cave. What if we aren't going up? Where _are_ we in relation to everything else? Where do we go so that Heimdall will see us if he looks?"

_How do we leave? Where do we go? Why is no one helping them!?_

"I...I think I can help with that." Loki whispers and she and Volstagg startle, and then turn to see him lifting up a thick roll of paper. Sif's stomach leaps to her throat.

"Is that the map?" she asks, reaching out a hand to take it from him. Loki nods, giving a grim smile. She unrolls the paper across her lap, eyes going wide as she sees the ink slowly trace itself across the white paper. The tunnels. It's a map of the tunnels, and how to get to the surface. Her eyes squeeze shut, relief threatening to make her weep. "Oh, Norns, Loki; I am so sorry for our pestering about this before. You have just saved our _lives."_

Loki nods several times, before he leans over to the side and promptly vomits up black blood. She starts, but Loki lifts up a hand and coughs, spitting out several times and wipes at the edge of his mouth stiffly, rubbing at his chest with one hand. "I don't think that it was the best idea to use sedir right now," he whispers, "my body is rejecting the idea."

 _Violently._ But it got them the map. And Sif thinks she can live with that.

They force Loki to lay down and monitor from the corner of their eyes as if his body will simply give up the ghost. (He's so damaged he might and this terrifies her.) Fandral and Hogun finally return several hours later, Hogun hobbling as he's assisted by Fandral towards the small encampment. Fandral is sporting a nasty gash on his forehead, with a bruise forming around the blood. Sif moves to help him, helping Hogun down to the ground. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Hogun's lips press together and Avil moves forward to frantically fret over him. The Vanir warrior allows his sister to bother him and shoves a canteen up towards her moodily. Sif looks to Fandral for explanation.

"It was, ah, wet. I slipped and then he slipped. Huge gash up the side of his leg," Fandral lightly waves in the direction with his own leg. "I dressed it as best I could, but I don't know…"

Infection.

Death.

 _Great._ Sif holds back a sob of helplessness and lifts up the map, trying to reassure herself that there's a chance for them to survive. This isn't the end of everything. _They will be fine. They're going to leave this place. This prison._ "We'll get out." She promises. "Loki got the map."

000o000

Day six slowly wanes onwards and Sif gathers the canteens and moves to the outcropping of water a little bit aways from the camp. Hogun's managed to break past the worst of the infection (they think) and Loki's leg is looking a little better, but they're still two or three days from finding an exit. (Maybe.) They'd been going the wrong direction from the start and had to turn around. Sif is just glad that the map is adaptive. It shows them where they are in the Blodig Skog, and that apparently includes, _anywhere—_ even underground.

Sif fills up the canteens to the brim and then swings them over her shoulders, standing still for a moment to try and catch a moment to herself. She's hardly slept since this whole thing began and she's been running to and fro again and again. She's exhausted. She wants to sleep, and she wants a moment to herself. Needs it, as selfish as it is.

The calming noise of the water is soft, almost imperceptible and it's for this reason that Sif becomes acutely aware when another set of breathing joins hers.

Her spine stiffens. Her hands curl into fists. She ignores how they tremble, not wanting to turn. If it had been one of the others, they would have announced themselves. A wild animal would have attacked her. Oh, _All-Fathers, please let it be a wild animal._

Sif stands still for a long few seconds, the ragged breathing sounding behind her before there's a soft scuffle and then—

_"Found you."_

Sif screams. She whirls around, breath coming hard and fast as she lifts the lantern up to the darkness and prays that her mind is playing tricks on her. The light of the lantern reveals the gaunt, sickly face and another wail threatens to tear out of her.

" _Sif!"_ A voice shouts behind them, laced with panic. She thinks it was Fandral's.

This can't be happening. No. _No._ Loki said that because there wasn't a barrier that there's no way that the creature could have known about this. There's no way. They should have been— _No, no, no—_ fine.

"We played a fun game," the Weeping Siren promises, baring her teeth, "but it's over now. It's time to go home."

"No," Sif breathes, shaking hand lifting towards her chest to cover her heart. She's panicking, but she can't do anything to stop it. Sif backs up, trying to reach the camp. There's no water here. That much she's certain of. Oh, Norns, _why? Please, please, please—_ "You can't be here."

The Weeping Siren releases a cackling laugh. It's grating. "Dearest, you did not choose wisely to come down this path. Those who have wandered down before have only been met with sorrow."

Sif's mind flashes to the children's corpses. Her chest heaves with a gasp of horror and she drops the lantern, whirling around and breaking into a run in an attempt to reach the others. Some part of her insists that she should just find a different route, lead the creature away from them, but there's no point. They've been hearing the scuffling for days; the creature, Sif is beginning to suspect, knows where the others are anyway.

_Run. Keep. Moving. Go._

Her vision is blurry. She feels light headed.

_Keep. Moving._

Sif can see the firelight of their measly gathering of lanterns when something clamps down on her hair and yanks, dragging her to a halt. A cry of pain escapes her lips and she gasps with horror a panicked sob bubbling out of her. Its caught her. _Its caught her!_

She's pulled backwards and a hand clamps over her mouth to silence her hyperventilation. "Shh," the Weeping Siren coos. "There's no need to be afraid, daughter. Mother is here now. She'll keep all of you safe. I promise."

Sif doesn't want her promises.

She wants to go _home._ (Why is it, still, even after all this time, her mind flashes first to that cellar, and not Asgard?)

The Weeping Siren hauls her forward by her braid, and Sif looks towards the others through her blurred vision. The Warriors Three and Loki are standing in front of the children who have all clumped together behind them. Sif sometimes forgets how small the nineteen children can make themselves when they try. A helpless sob washes through her.

They don't have any weapons. Loki and Hogun can barely stand—shouldn't be standing—and all they're armed with is a few sticks and rocks. This isn't enough to fight off a sedirmaster. They're going to die. They're going to be claimed again. _There is nothing they can do to stop this._

"Let her go, Mother." Volstagg demands, adjusting his stance to seem more intimidating, but he's failing. Sif can see how pale his face is from the lighting of the flame, how his hands tremble.

The Weeping Siren lets out another bout of laughter. "You all believe yourself so _brave."_ She sneers the word like poison, "But you all know yourselves to be lost inside. I collect the lost children. I bring them home. How could you be so _ungrateful?_ I have done nothing but care for you...and you abandoned me."

 _We didn't,_ Sif wants to shout, _we wouldn't do that, we're good. We're—_

No. No more. Please. She can't, she can't— _s_ _top._

"Li," Loki's voice is barely audible. "I need you to take the map and leave with the others, alright? We'll hold Mother off for you to get away."

"Loki—" Li breathes in protest.

"Oh, no need for such _dramatics,"_ the creature sighs, "we don't need to pretend all of you don't want to return. Please, my dearests, _come home."_

"No. _Li_ ," Loki demands and thrusts the map back at the child before he and the Warriors Three advance. The Weeping Siren sighs heavily and her grip Sif tightens almost to the point of unbearable.

"Fine. I'll prove myself if that's what you _need."_ The Weeping Siren throws Sif forward. Her legs won't hold her upright and she staggers to her knees, trying to control the tremble. Trying to remember how to be brave. She won't stop _crying._ Norns, she's not a little girl anymore. The tears are distracting—all she can focus on—but Sif scrambles to find a weapon to help the others.

Li is leading the children off, and Sif's stomach clenches with displeasure at that. She needs to stay with them. To protect them, but she can't. She can't even get herself off this stupid floor. The sounds of battle are ensuing behind her, and the smell of blood has broken air.

_Move._

It takes her longer than she would have liked, but Sif grabs at the nearest item, one of the lanterns—this one's oil was used up yesterday, but they didn't part from it for whatever reason—and whirls around, throwing it at the Weeping Siren's head. It makes contact. Sickeningly. The creature lets out a wail of pain, shoving Loki into Hogun and the two of them go tumbling down to the ground in a heap of tangled, broken limbs.

"You!" the creature shrieks, whirling on Sif.

Sif hasn't gotten up to her feet yet. She's still laying near the lanterns, trying to get herself to stand. Fandral is laying near one of the walls, blood trickling down the side of his head as if someone tried to bash his skull in. He's not moving. Volstagg is rounding around the Siren, but the woman seems fully aware that he's there. Sif withers under the creature's attention.

"Fine. _Fine._ If we must play with fire, so be it." She grits and opens her palms, wiggling her fingers. Flame sparks almost immediately, and the creature spins around and slams her fist into Volstagg's stomach. Her shield-brother lets out a scream, hands moving to clench at the area.

"Volstagg!" Sif cries, shoving up towards her elbow.

_Up._

She still can't move. Her limbs are shaking too much.

The Weeping Siren turns towards them, fists glowing with the flame. She draws some sort of long sword from her sedir and turns towards Hogun and Loki. Loki is mostly upright, but Hogun is still stiff on the ground. "I don't _want_ to kill you dearests," the creature sighs, "but you have left me with no choice. These deaths are because you _made_ me. I must protect my family...and you encourage such bad behavior in the little ones."

No.

_No._

Sif struggles to get upright.

Loki's hands lift and he clenches his fists. An attempt at a shield forms, but it sputters out and dies before Loki can solidify it. The Weeping Siren cackles, drawing closer. "Foolish child, do you really think that you'd have your sedir back within a few _days?_ You have more power than I first thought if you've already manifested some _now,_ but...well, you're likely aware what Aethetin does."

Six months to a year is the average amount it takes to kill someone, that's what Loki said. Loki kept getting sicker and sicker; nothing was helping. Oh, Norns, how long have they _been_ here? Enough time that the Weeping Siren made significant progress in almost _stopping Loki's heart._ The Weeping Siren took his seidr. A little longer and she would have _killed_ him.

The flush of rage that hits her is enough to help her draw herself upright.

She moves. She's still making little hiccups of terror, but she's _moving._ She's not going to let the Weeping Siren do any more harm to her shield-brothers.

"I—" Loki's face has drained of all remaining color. He looks ready to topple forward.

"Goodbye, my dear," the Weeping Siren sings softly, "please tell the others that Mother sends them her love."

"Wait!" Loki chokes out.

The sword Sif had forgotten the creature had in hand swings—in the change of light, Sif recognizes it as Fandral's from all those months ago—towards Loki's neck. Sif's muscles tense before she tackles the woman from the side, sending the creature pitching towards the ground. Loki inhales sharply anyway, stumbling backwards.

 _Curse it._ Apparently she wasn't fast enough to leave him unscathed.

The Weeping Siren smashes against the ground and lets out a growl of anger before shoving Sif off of her and, before Sif has any time to react, plunges the weapon into her stomach. Hot, fiery pain spreads where the metal entered and she looks down at the sword trying to understand what just happened. She...was just stabbed.

Oh.

That's really not ideal.

The blade draws back and Sif's vision goes white. The creature shoves Sif to the ground and she smashes into it, gasping and curling around the ugly wound. Her hands press, but it hurts to do so. _Apply pressure, you idiot._ She presses, gasping. Blood is staining her fingers red.

The creature plunges the weapon into Hogun who twitches, but is quiet, and moves towards Volstagg. Loki is on the ground already, breathing sharp, short breaths. Sif can't tell how much of the first attack she actually prevented, but she hopes it was enough to stop him from being beheaded. Fandral is still leaning against that wall, unmoving.

This can't be it.

This can't be their fate. To die alone in a cave, abandoned and forgotten. _This can't be the end._ (At least, some less hysterical part of her mind insists, the children got away. Hopefully they can make it to Ju before the Siren catches them. It's something. It's nothing like what they were hoping. But it's _something.)_

It smells like ozone. It's thick, and Sif can't tell if it's from her wound or not. She draws in a wet gasp and the Weeping Siren raises the weapon. It glints in the light, stained with their blood. She raises it, swinging it towards Volstagg's neck—

Only for something to smash into her stomach, sizzling with electricity and driven with enough force to throw her back several feet. The Weeping Siren trips over Loki's prone form and smashes into the ground. _Oh, Norns._ Sif barely dares to breathe, head lifting as she tries to focus, looking towards the tunnel that the children ran off through less than five minutes ago.

Her heart thumps in her chest with anticipation.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Help._

Thor throws himself into the room with a loud war cry, calling Mjolnir back to him. The weapon flings back into his hand with ease, the lightning bouncing on the handle making flashes of light dance across the room.

Thor. _Here._ Thor. Thor. Thor. Her mind refuses to think of nothing else, and she wants to weep. It wasn't a dream. She hadn't imagined Asgard's existence. She hadn't pretended she'd had a life before the creature caught them. _Thor is here. She can rest now._

He isn't alone. Einherjar pour into the space behind him, armed to the teeth and Sif can spot a few familiar faces among them through her blurred vision. Her father is one of them. The sheer amount of _power_ that radiates into the small space nearly stifles her and hardly half a step behind their son is the All-Father and All-Mother.

_Oh, Norns._

_The king and queen of Asgard are here._

The Weeping Siren lets out a few laughs and hobbles up to her feet, hair smoking slightly. "You waste your energy, _Asgardians._ This is a family matter, not one of the State."

"You _took_ my brother." Thor growls between his teeth. His voice sounds different than Sif remembers it. Deeper. Heavier. She hasn't heard it since that night in the Blodig Skog when everything fell apart. When they were _claimed. (_ Is his hair shorter? He's favoring one leg, or is she imagining that?)

The Weeping Siren hisses, "He's not your _brother._ Not anymore. He's my son now. And we've been _very_ happy together, have we not, dearest?" She nudges Loki with the side of her boot pointedly, obviously expecting him to say something. Sif doesn't know if he can. Is blood bubbling in his throat like it is hers?

" _My dear?_ " The Weeping Siren's voice is hard. Heavy. A part of her shies away from the tone, knowing that nothing pleasant follows it.

"W-w-we h-have," Loki promises. His voice trembles. The Siren leans down and caresses a hand through Loki's hair. Loki stiffens, letting out a strangled sort of noise of panic. Sif wants to move, but the blood is everywhere and making it hard to focus.

" _Don't touch him!"_ Thor commands sharply, shifting some only to be grabbed by High Commander Tyr before he can do anything drastic.

Everyone from her realm— _her_ realm. Asgard. Asgard is _here. (Not a dream, not a dream, not a dream)._ Her father is here—seems to stiffen as the creature moves, but when her hand makes contact with Loki's hair, the All-Mother's expression twists into something dark and her stance tightens. The short sword she has in hand gleams in the lantern's meager light.

" _Shh."_ The Weeping Siren sings, looking towards Thor. "You were not meant to survive that attack, but here you are. It's of no matter, we'll just have to do the killing a different way. _Drop your weapons."_ The last three words are sung in that awful tune and Sif's mind is thrown back months ago when the woman demanded the same of them and all of them had just done so.

There could be no fight. No resistance. The command had come and all of them had followed.

 _Siren._ The word was not attached to her title for nothing.

A majority of the Einherjar follow the command after less than two or three seconds of struggle. Thor doesn't, ozone crackling in the air again. The Weeping Siren's eyes narrow, " _Drop. Your. Weapons."_

Mjolnir slips to the floor. The remaining Einherjar are disarmed a moment later.

 _No—wait!_ This wasn't how it was supposed to go! Oh, _please._ It was a recuse. A hope. They were going to...to finally get out of here. (She'll be free in death, but Valhalla wasn't where she wanted to finally breathe the air of a freeman again.)

The Weeping Siren is still stroking Loki's hair. The second prince is making noises of open panic. Sif thinks she's going to be sick. She can add her vomit to the pool of bodily fluid that should have stayed inside of her.

" _I...am the end of your story; prepare for a death that is gory—"_ the Weeping Siren's fingers trace towards Loki's forehead, "— _slee—"_

The Weeping's Siren's voice dies. Her hands raise slowly towards her throat and she claws at an invisible hand, unable to draw in breath. Sif breathes out steadily, turning her head towards the Asgardians, trying to determine the source of the choking. The King and Queen stand side by side, unaffected by the Siren's calls. Gungnir is still gripped in the King's hands, and Queen Frigga still holds her short sword. These are some of the most powerful beings in the Nine Realms, Sif realizes. _Why would the Weeping Siren stop them?_

Queen Frigga's hand is raised in a clenched fist, fingers glowing with the unmistakable light of sedir. She's choking the creature. Sif's more upset than she thinks she should be. Queen Frigga jerks her wrist up and the Weeping Siren is dragged away from Loki forcefully. The command's of the creature seem to stop, as they always do when her song ends or the command has been fulfilled.

As the Einherjar gather their weapons, Queen Frigga strides towards the woman with long, but even strides and takes her by the throat with her physical hand. "Touch _my son_ again and I'll do far worse than take your voice." The All-Mother's voice is heavy. "You are powerful, and that's not a good thing for you," the Queen leans towards the creature's face. "It means when I drain you dry of every lost drop of sedir you possess, it will _hurt."_

"You—" the Weeping Siren tries to say, clawing at Queen Frigga's forearm with a wild sort of desperation.

"Oh, _silence_." Queen Frigga waves her other hand in front of the beast and the Weeping Siren slumps. Queen Frigga's lips curl with disgust and she all but tosses the creature towards High Commander Tyr. "Restrain her, and be assured she won't awaken until I say so."

Good.

That's probably good.

Sif's head aches too much for her to determine otherwise. Everything is beginning to fuzz. King Odin takes control of the situation and the room becomes a flurry of movement, a few of the Einherjar securing the area as healers are rushed forward. (The children. Who has the children? Did they stop them in time? Where are they?) Sif recognizes Eir, or she _thinks_ it's Eir, but her vision of everything blurs together when her father kneels down in front of her, eyes wide with panic.

"Sif," he whispers, hands scrambling for a second as he tries to assess her visually and determine what the best course of action would be. She blinks up at him, too exhausted to speak. His brown eyes land on her stomach and he swears under his breath, rolling her onto her back as gently as he can so he can help apply pressure.

It's not until his hands press against the wound that she realizes that everything isn't a frenzied hallucination drawn up by her panic. This is _real._ His hands are solid as they push on top of hers and his voice is real when he twists around to shout for the assistance of a healer.

He turns to look back at her, "Daughter—" she flinches at the word "— _daughter_ , I swear to you that you'll be fine. Please. Just keep focusing on me. You're going to live through this. Everything will be alright."

Her vision is going dark around the edges.

She wants to agree with him, but she knows better.

She attempts to give him a smile, but it's a grimace. Months of waiting, months of pain and longing, and this is how she meets her father again. By saying goodbye. The wound doesn't hurt anymore. It's just kind of there, stealing her blood and making her father panic. His gloved fingers are warm on top of hers. She's freezing. And thirsty.

She opens her mouth, trying to say something, but her words aren't working right. Her voice is gone. She waits until her father has made eye-contact with her again before she tries to mouth, " I'm sorry, I love you."

"No-no, Sif—" her father starts to say frantically. Sif sees a healer land on their knees beside her father on the edge of her tilted vision before everything goes dark. Her father's words blur, vanish, and she slips away.

* * *

 _"My heart, my heart,_ _my drowning heart; oh, all the tears I've cried,_

_Though I may weep forever more, my love will never die,_

_I will not say goodbye."_

My Love Will Never Die - Claire Wyndham

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, seeing an enraged Frigga would make me 100% convinced of my painful demise. :) Thanks again for your support guys! One chapter left! :)
> 
> Next chapter: September 27th! See you all then! ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! I am late and I apologize, but like-guys. Mental illness kills, you know? I really feel like I dragged myself out of coffin this morning, haha. Anyway. :) Love you all! Thanks so much for your support! You're amazing. :D Please enjoy the last chapter of The Weeping Siren! ;D
> 
> Warnings: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, anxiety, some mentioned gore, mentioned child abuse, potentially disturbing elements, paranoia on my part. ;)

* * *

"...Looks dead. Are all of them like this?"

"More or less. Some worse than others."

"Mm. Yes, I have heard about the prince's...condition. Norns I just—is Sif going to be _okay?_ How could someone _do_ this? All of them are nearly dead...on the All-Father, I can't believe that she's really _here._ It's been so long, Eir. Too long."

"You'll settle."

"I should have refused to let her continue with the Einherjar once I learned what she was doing. I should have pulled her out all those years ago instead of letting her continue to run around with those fools. If I had, none of this would have happened. She wouldn't be nearly to Valhalla. Norns curse it, Eir, I'm a terrible mother."

Sif's head feels weirdly _clogged,_ but the last word seems to settle her consciousness in reality. Mother. Mother. Mother…

What? What is this? This voice isn't the _right_ one. Not the nasal tone that she's supposed to know. Not the one that's been following her for weeks. Months. (However long this has been going on). What is going on? This—this isn't _right._

A hand touches her cheek and Sif panics. Her stomach drops and her fists tighten with horror. She reacts. The Weeping Siren isn't—she doesn't want to do this anymore. She's...she's... _it._ No more kisses on the forehead, no more cheek touching, no more _touching._ (Something, somewhere, insists that the Weeping Siren has done something terrible and to put herself close to the creature is to endanger herself and others). Sif jerks upwards, a sharp, agonizing pain smashes into her gut. She needs to leave. She _must_ go.

She can't stay here anymore.

"Sif!" A voice shouts as she scrambles off the bed and smashes into the hard ground. She needs to get away. _Away, away, away._

"Daughter!"

No.

She's back. (She left?) She can't do this. She needs to find the others and they'll leave. They'll get out of this. Everything is going wrong and she needs to get out. Away. Sif scrambles up to her feet. She moves for the nearest exit, and a hand grabs at her arm to halt her. Panicking, she whirls and slams her fist into the face of her captor and _runs._

She manages to break through the door and into a hall, feet aching and she slips on the smooth surface, unsuspecting it. The floor feels like polished marble, which is ridiculous because the Weeping Siren's basement is cold rock. There isn't any floor like this.

She nearly goes crashing down in a crumpled heap on top of everything, but strong arms wrap around her shoulders and catch her before she can fall. "No!" Sif screeches, " _No!_ Let me go! Let us _all_ go! I won't do this anymore!"

She shakes her head wildly and hair falls in front of her face. She struggles in the grip frantically, kicking her legs out and trying to break free, but she's too weak to make much of a dent. All she can do is wiggle, and the arms are too strong for her to claw her way out of.

"Sif!" the voice is male, and it throws her. This...this...what? "Sif, calm down, it's fine. You're safe." No. That's not right. They're never _safe_ here. "Sif, please, _breathe."_

She'd stopped?

"I…" her voice dies.

"Sif," her mind manages to place a name to the voice. Thor. Loki's brother. Thor. _Safe._ She crumples in the grip and Thor takes her weight easily, slipping his arms around her and lifting her up like she weighs nothing. Her head lolls towards his shoulder. Her stomach hurts. It's burning. Is she dying? She feels like she's dying.

Thor's eyes are shadowed and his blond hair is a mess around his face. He looks like he hasn't slept for days. Maybe he hasn't. If the Weeping Siren caught him...who knows what will have happened? Where are the others? Where is the creature herself? Where is _Sif?_

"Thor." She breathes out his name. "What's...how did you get here?"

Thor's expression washes with confusion before he seems to catch her meaning. His eyes gain a pained look. "We're in Asgard, my friend," Thor murmurs. "We have been for five days now. It's alright. The creature can't cause you anymore harm. She's been dealt with."

His tone is dark, eyes holding a promise. Her stomach flips. "You killed Mother?" she whispers. Her eyes feel as though they've gone wide. She's going to be sick, and it will be all over the Crown Prince. A part of her wants to laugh at the stupidity of this. Her first few minutes awake in Asgard and they'll be spent hurtling vomit.

Thor's expression flattens for a moment, "Why do all of you insist on calling her that?"

Sif grabs weakly for his shoulder, keeping her other arm planted against her burning stomach. "Thor—where is Mother?"

Thor shakes his head, "This isn't the time for that, Sif. Keep breathing. I think you nearly stopped your mother's heart with shock." He hesitates and then adds, "Your birth mother. Not...not the creature."

_That is my mother._

"Thor, am I dying?" she asks, hand gripping at her stomach when it gives a pulse. None of this feels real. Thor's arms seem like a fantastic dream she's destined to wake up from. The blond still hasn't moved yet, keeping his grip tight around her. The crown prince's eyes go wide and he looks down at her, shaking his head several times.

"No, Sif. You're not dying."

"I think I am." She whispers. "I think I'm dying."

"You're not." Thor says firmly. If only his words could sway the fate, she might be a little more inclined to believe him that way. The burning renews itself with vigor and she makes a little strangled noise before her body gives out and takes her consciousness with it.

000o000

The next time her consciousness grounds, there isn't anyone talking. No hands trying to grab at her face or grip her. She's laying on something so soft it's uncomfortable and the room smells of burning incense. It's thick, almost to the point of making her nauseous, but she manages to hold back vomit and instead focuses on what she can pick up on her surroundings without getting up.

Her mind is still clouded, but vague memories are leaking in. The tunnels, the attack and—the near murder. Sif jerks, her eyes ripping open as she shoves her way upwards, trying to scramble off of the surface to find the Warriors Three, the children, and Loki. Her limbs are still weak and she barely gets up before hands grab at her shoulders and shove her back down.

A noise escapes her. She's not sure what it's supposed to be, only that it leaves her.

"Sif." Voice. Female. "Don't get up."

"I'm…" Sif breathes. _Asgard._ She swallows. "Where—who...why…?"

"Focus girl." The female voice chides, and Sif forces herself to. The world is blurring, but after keeping her gaze pinned up, she manages to make out the familiar figure of Eir leaning over her. The head healer's lips are pressed into a thin line and her golden hair swept away from her face. She looks tired. Sif feels tired.

"Am I dead?" Sif asks, hand lifting subconsciously to the burn in her stomach.

Eir huffs, shaking her head. "No. You won't believe how many of your companions have asked me a similar question."

The Warriors. Loki. She grabs at this, reaching weakly for Eir's forearm. Why is she so sluggish? She was never this slow when the Weeping—when the creature was keeping them. She may have been tired, but it was never lethargy. At least, not like _this._

"How—how are they?" Sif's amazed she got the words out with how tight her throat is.

Eir sighs and untangles herself from Sif's grip with ease. The head healer takes a seat on the edge of Sif's cot, expression twisting into something uncomfortable. Sif breathes out, trying to remind herself to stay calm and does a quick assessment of the room. A basic healing room, private. Sif's stomach churns uncomfortably at the amount of open space.

The cellar was so crowded. Cluttered. Dark.

This room is nothing like that. It's unnerving after so long of the same.

"Your mother and father went home to sleep," Eir interjects into the silence, "a good thing, too. I was close to strapping them down and forcing a sedative down their throat."

Sif's mind flashes to the Siren's dry skin touching at her forehead and the whispered word of " _sleep"_ before everything would drop off as her body was forced to command. A shudder washes through her, much to her embarrassment. (Her parents were here? Her _parents_ were here. Not the creature. Not...no—her father. Her mo—both of them). Eir's lips turn down at the edges as she sees Sif's reaction.

Sif keeps her lips pressed together, afraid to ask about the Warriors, the children, and Loki again, but reluctant to wade through the next few hours without any answers. Does she push, or not?

Apparently picking up on her mental contemplation, Eir sighs heavily and stills her fidgeting hands. "I'm certain that you have questions."

Sif nods reluctantly.

Eir dips her head. "Well, on with it, girl. I'll do my best to answer what I can."

The reassurance is enough. It wouldn't have been in the cellar, but this is Asgard. It's Eir. She wasn't there...and she's a healer. Sif can't see her—she shakes off the thought, refusing to let it run course. "The others?" Sif croaks.

"Alive." Eir promises, then tips her head. "Barely. If the rescue party had been even a few minutes later then it wouldn't be the case—" _Volstagg wouldn't have a head_ "—you were lucky. I was there, I saw the worst of it."

The warm blood pooling under her as she bled out comes to mind, and Sif thinks she might be sick. She's never been so close to death and unable to do anything about it before. Typically she's unconscious, or she can patch herself up and move on until the injury goes away on its own. Not like this.

"What of the children?" Sif murmurs. "Did you find them?"

"Smashed right into them as we were going to the tunnels." Eir promises. "You were unconscious for the return journey. As almost everyone else too, save Volstagg. Stubborn lad. Refused to sleep until he was certain the lot of you wouldn't be standing on Valhalla's doorsteps when he awoke."

Yes, that sounds like him. A small ghost of a smile tugs on her lips at the thought.

"Last I heard the All-Mother had finally gotten all nineteen returned to their families or placed in new homes." Eir shrugs, "I'm not sure. My business has been here. What I know is mostly through gossip. When I switch with one of my apprentices to keep watch over Prince Loki, I'll ask for you."

"Thank you." Sif whispers. She chews her lip, blinking back exhaustion. It's barely enough to keep it at bay, but she has more important things to focus on instead of sleep. "Where is Moth—the Siren now?" Sif asks. "Did you kill her?"

" _I_ didn't." Eir promises with some bite.

Panic pools in her stomach. "Someone else _did?"_

The head healer's eyes settle on her face, expression hard, but almost sad. The latter is so strange on the brisk woman that Sif thinks she's reading it wrong. "No, child." Eir says quietly. "Vanaheim is calling for a proper trial. Until the identity of the woman can be uncovered, she has a lovely cell in Asgard's lower dungeons."

"She's _here?"_ Sif squeaks. Her fists clench around the blanket and something hopelessly close to fear tightens her chest, making it hard to breathe. (A sickly part of her wants to leap from the bed and run to the dungeons, pleading forgiveness for trying to leave. She hates that it's so.)

Eir's lips tighten and she pushes Sif back down when she tries to sit up again. "Stay there. I think that's enough questions for now. You should sleep."

"But what—?"

"Sif." Eir's voice is firm. "I'm serious. They can wait until later, you're exhausted."

Sif grabs at Eir's arm desperately. "Is she cross with us? Mother?" Her voice is almost near babbling. "You tell her she needn't be, alright? Tell her that...that we just made a mistake. Please. We'll be better next time."

Eir's eyes harden. "I'm not telling her anything of the sort."

"Madame—" Sif tries to start, panic bubbling in her chest. She thinks she's going to vomit, but she can't let the Weeping Siren harm any of them again. She's in the palace. Asgard won't be enough to hold her. She's powerful. So much more powerful than they're even thinking and she'll be so angry and—

Eir's fingers press against Sif's forehead, and that awful, warm, but familiar feeling of sleep crashes into her.

000o000

When her parents return again, Sif is awake. She's not doing anything of particular note, but she's _awake_ and studies them with a frantic note of desperation. She hasn't seen them since before they left for Vanaheim. She can't even remember what the last thing she said to them was. Probably something snippy, or nothing at all.

Her mother's blonde hair is tucked up close to her head, her clothing rumpled. There's flour on her dress, despite what looks like some margin of effort put into removing it. Her mother has always been a stress baker, so Sif's not awfully surprised by this. Her father's red hair is falling over his eyes, face hard. The soft edges she remembers have been tightened by stress, and his brown eyes stare her down with a clear relief.

Sif remembers the feeling of his hands pushing against her wound and inwardly flinches, sickened.

Her mother only stands still in the doorway for a moment longer before moving forward and sweeping her into a tight embrace before beginning to fret and worry over her. She wipes dirt away from Sif's face and pulls out a brush, coaxing her up into a sitting position so she can begin to work her way through Sif's plethora of knots and tangles.

She'd kept her hair braided as much as possible, but the length makes knots inevitable.

"Norns curse it, Sif, did you even brush your hair _once_ while you were away?" her mother demands sharply when Sif winces again at a particularly sensitive patch. Her father has taken a seat on the other side of the bed, lips thinned together as he studies her. He's usually louder. The silence makes her uneasy.

"No." Sif admits quietly. "Didn't have a brush. Mother wouldn't let us."

Her mother sobers. From this angle, Sif can't see her expression, but she hears it in the breathing. Sif's eyes squeeze shut and she resists the urge to tip her head back. She's not certain what to say anymore. Anytime she's brought something to do with the creature or their captivity up with the healers or Eir they've given her one of those _looks_ —like her soul has been possessed and they've been tasked with the unfortunate responsibility to keep her body functioning.

She thinks she's insane.

Any time the Weeping Siren is brought up they clench.

Her parents are no different. There's a visible tension in her father's shoulders and her mother's hands are rough when they draw the comb through her dark locks again. "Sorry." Sif whispers. "I...I won't bring it up again."

"On the contrary," her mother's voice is barely steady. "I'd rather you discussed it. I want to know what happened. I've heard accounts from Hogun, and Volstagg's mother, but that's not the same as it coming from _your_ mouth. Talk."

What is there to _say?_ So little actually happened. Just that farm, those long days, and the slow loss of her sanity. "I…" she chews on her lower lip. She feels so much younger than her proper age. A child, barely able to stand upright. She fell down, and she doesn't know if she'll get up. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Start with our questions." Her mother answers promptly. "You can narrate later. For now we just want to know a few things." Sif inclines her head, though inwardly she dreads every moment of this. "Did the creature ever harm you?"

She hesitates. Remembers too many instances to count and then gives a slight nod. Her father coils up tighter in his corner of silent disapproval. Her mother only works the comb through her hair. It offers such a grand illusion of serenity.

"Why do you call her mother?"

"Because that's what she is." Sif murmurs. _That's what she made them say._

"How on the Nine did you escape her prison?" Her mother's note holds an air of possible pride. "They searched for you for months and you'd already been leaving."

Months.

_Six years since I started collecting my family._

"How long were we gone?" Sif counters instead, a burning desire to _know_ suddenly pulsing through her. She can't just sit here anymore. She wants to move. Breathe the air of Asgard because it's been too long.

Her parents are quiet a moment, sharing a look before her mother sighs and rests a gentle hand on Sif's shoulder. It feels heavy, as if it's meant to keep her in place. "You left for Vanaheim almost ten months ago."

Sif's eyes go wide. Her throat runs dry.

Ten.

_Ten?_

_That's almost an entire year._

They were hunting the creature for nearly two weeks before it caught them, and then free for about a week. They were captives for nine months. _Nine._ Everyone must have assumed them dead when they vanished after an attack like that. In the wild reaches of her most elaborate fantasies, the longest they'd been trapped was a little over a month. That was wrong. It explains everyone's awe over their return, at least.

Her mother has a few more questions that she pushes for, but Sif can barely remember much of them. She focuses on keeping herself awake and not much else. At least, until her father finally speaks up. "The Weeping Siren's trial is ten days from now. King Odin asked me to prepare you to testify."

Sif stills. Feels herself go rigid so quickly that something shifts uncomfortably in her stab wound. She can't get her voice to work right, and finds herself in the all too common position of not knowing what to say anymore. Trial? Didn't Eir mention something about that?

_They want her to testify._

She can't.

"No." She whispers. "I'm not—I won't—"

"Sif," her mother sighs heavily. "You don't have much of a choice. Once the creature has been taken care of then you won't have to talk with her again. Or see her. We're not happy about this either, but the State demands a recompense for what happened."

Sif pauses, and then, "No. _You_ have. I can't testify against her. She's my mother."

"No." Her father retorts sharply. "She's not. I never want you to call her such again. That demon was your captor and your near killer. She doesn't deserve a title so precious as mother. The amount of damage she'd done to those children on Vanaheim physically and physiologically—the evidence keeps staking against her—" then why can't they use _that!?_ "—especially since Prince Loki was declared—"

" _Ahni."_ Her mother calls sharply. "Husband, I don't know if this is best time for our daughter to learn of that."

Sif's stomach coils, an apprehensive dread threatening to eat her. Whenever she's asked over her shield brothers and the second prince, people have clamped up and said almost nothing, especially regarding the Snake Prince. She knows that Volstagg and Fandral are awake, but details on anyone else has been faint voices discussing over her half-asleep mind.

"What happened to Loki?" her question sounds so innocent. She has an assuring lull in her gut that the answer will not be. "Where is he? Is he alright? No one has mentioned anything and I _need_ to know. I can't just sit here."

Her parents share another one of those looks before her father sighs and leans forward, gently taking Sif's hand in her own. Whatever he says next, he knows that she isn't going to like. This doesn't make her feel any more confident than before. "You know he was being fed Aetheitin, yes?"

"Yes." Sif confirms. ( _No, no, no. Please don't say he's dead or sedir-less. Please don't—)_

"It's a powerful substance, and given how weak your bodies are from lack of substance alone...it really was inevitable, I suppose." Her father sighs heavily, gripping her hand tighter. "Loki never woke up. Your companions have all aroused at least once now, but seven days since they found you and Loki still has not...Eir declared him brain dead or nearly there yesterday."

Sif's world comes to a shuddering halt. It shakes, twists and then falls apart in her lap. Her lips draw apart, but only a faint noise gets out. _Brain dead? Loki?_ It can't be right. They have to be toying with her, even if she can't see the point of that.

_Brain dead._

She pushes past the tightness in her throat to get out one syllable, "What?"

Her mother's hand settles against Sif's scalp. "The Aetheitin isn't meant for long term use, Sif, not unless it's a planned execution or killing. Given the state of all of your health, Eir is amazed he survived this long. If he doesn't have some revival in the next few days...monitoring his mind has drawn Eir up to this conclusion, and the Crown is less than happy about it."

Thor must be devastated. Norns, she can't even imagine how much pain he's in because of this. He loves his brother. (Sif sees why now. She couldn't before their capture, but she can now. Oh, this doesn't feel real. She's still waiting for someone to pinch her and send her back to the cellar).

"He's…" Sif tries to get the words out, but her throat is raw. Salty tears slip down her cheeks and Sif startles at them. She hadn't even felt them build in her eyes, but they're suddenly there. Her father sighs and smooths one away from her cheek with his thumb.

"It will be alright, daughter." He promises. She flinches at the word, and realizes that her parents have spent the entire conversation thus far avoiding it like it might set her off. It's a familiar family endearment. She can't believe she'd missed this until now. It's considerate of them, but only makes her feel embarrassed.

She can't even hear a _word_ without being reminded of her captivity?

_Loki was declared brain dead._

Apparently hoping to change the subject, but not willing to ease the tension, her mother switches topics entirely. "I've spoken with your sister, Sif. She's spent every possible moment she could at your side—" somehow Sif doubts that, given the fact that Systra _hates_ her "—but time has been thin. The country is in an uproar with all that has happened. I think when we go home, I'll invite her to stay with us for a few days."

Distaste fills her mouth with a sandy, dry sensation. She'd rather her stuffy, distant older sibling remain in the crown castle where she can tend to her duties as one of Queen Frigga's aids, and they don't have to sit and fight about everything for hours. Systra never supported her decision to join the Einherjar, always so insistent that it's not a woman's place—and even _now,_ she still ridicules and belittles Sif's decision.

The last thing she wants to deal with is Systra.

"I'd rather not." Sif grumbles under her breath, but adds quickly before anyone can call her on it, "My shield-brothers? Where are they? Can I see them?"

"That depends on what Eir says." Her mother promises. "They're bedridden, much the same as you."

But alive. Some of the tension leaks out of her at her mother's words and she breathes in deep. "Will they have to witness at Moth—" she remembers her father's demand and backtracks quickly, unwilling to enter into anyone's wrath "—at the Weeping Siren's trial? Or is it just me?"

"Them too." Her father says. "But don't focus on that for now."

_Then why'd you bring it up? The only thing she'll think about now is this._

000o000

Her parents excuse themselves when they're called away on business with regretful eyes, but Sif assures them that she'll be fine. With how weak her body is the chances of her walking off are very little. She _is_ surprised to see that there's Einherjar outside of the door. Two recruits that she trained with. Their names evade her for now, but when she gives an awkward wave to one, he returns it with a faint smile.

She thinks he asked to court her, if she's remembering right. She has no idea why her mind decides to pull up this useless bit of information, but it does.

One of Eir's aids returns shortly, fussing over Sif for a few minutes and changing the bandage on Sif's wound. It's the first time she's seen the stab, ugly, thick and deep, but the only thing she feels for it is an overwhelming wave of apathy. Fandral's weapon was designed to do more damage being pulled out than going in. The blade's edges are very subtly jagged. It looks smooth and straight to an untrained eye, but Sif has seen it in practice enough to know that the damage is extensive.

Maybe the Weeping Siren knew this, and that's why she claimed the weapon.

Is it terrible that Sif doesn't care?

The aid is a chatty girl who's clearly inexperienced dealing with trauma. (Sif's mind shies around the word, insistent that she's _not_ traumatized, but she can't find a fitting word for what's going on beyond that). The girl rattles on and on about speculation that Asgard had come to when everyone upped and vanished, explains about how no one thought anything was awfully suspicious until Thor arrived back in Asgard, half dead.

"Broken leg, here," she gestures to almost the exact same place of Loki's break on her own leg, and Sif doesn't know whether to be amazed or laugh at how much the universe takes as frequent pleasure in damaging the brothers in a similar fashion. Thor may not get seriously hurt often, but when he does Loki was usually took the first serving of it. "All mangled up. I helped Eir treat it. It was a bad wound, though, we're not sure if he'll ever lose the slight limp."

Sif remembers grasping at the thought that Thor's posture was lopsided when they arrived in the cave.

According to the aid, Thor said he got it on the return journey to Asgard, but hasn't said anything more. At least to the public. The only people Thor would talk to about things like that would be his parents, brother, _her,_ or the Warriors Three. But she hasn't seen Thor since that first time, and she can't exactly ask him.

Given Loki's state, she's not surprised about this.

The aid switches topics abruptly, moving onto the Weeping Siren's trial and Sif clenches up like locking her bones in such a manner is a type of game. She doesn't want to think about the trial. (Doesn't want to think about condemning Mother, or having to see her again).

The aid rattles on.

Sif has to remind herself that strangling someone who's trying to help her is frowned upon.

000o000

It's another day before Sif's door is opened and she looks up to see Fandral slowly shuffling in. There's a panicked worry on his face and he scrambles towards her as if something is biting on his heels. She sits up, confused. He looks a little better than Sif remembers. His face has more color and he's shaven and his hair is cropped. The latter looks like it was done with a knife because it's sloppy and uneven on one side.

"Sif." Fandral breathes her name out slowly. Carefully. He takes one of the chairs beside her bedside heavily. "Sif, they're driving me insane. I can't do it anymore."

"Mm?" She blinks several times, wondering if she's going to have to fight something off.

"My parents." Fandral whispers. "Norns, I think they think I'm going to wither away at the slightest touch or harsh word. They're making me testify at Mother's trial. Loki's—have you heard about Loki? Oh, it's awful, I can't—Sif, if we hadn't been so stupid, we wouldn't be responsible for _our prince's_ death."

Sif's teeth set. She's thought along the same lines, but hearing it out loud suddenly makes it _real. "_ I know." She says stiffly. "We were fools."

"I feel terrible." Fandral admits. "I wish it hadn't taken all of this—" he gestures wildly "—to convince us to stop."

"Me too."

The confession is tight, but it comes. Fandral stays in the room for a long time. Sif doesn't know how they seem to know, but Hogun appears sometime after hour one and Volstagg isn't far behind. Sif takes reassurance in their presence, relieved that they're alive and they're well.

None of them are thrilled about this stupid trial.

Later, she's shifted from sleep when Eir steps into the room and stares at all of them. At some point exhaustion was communally un-voiced but decided, and they all squished onto the small hospital bed. Through half-lidded eyes, Sif sees Eir's expression soften.

"They're in here." She murmurs to someone.

"Had you expected much else?" _Queen Frigga?_

"No." Eir promises. "Stubborn lads."

"They'll pull through, Eir," Queen Frigga reassures. "It's been a long few months for everyone. We're going to be okay. I promise."

Sif drifts off after that, unable to focus on the conversation. When she awakens, the Warriors are gone and Thor is seated at her bedside, expression grim. His hands are steapled under his nose and he appears to be in deep thought. He looks more sleep deprived than she remembers him being, hair a mess and she's fairly certain he hasn't changed clothing in at least four days.

He's eyes are distant. He must thinking about something heavy.

Sif draws herself together in a soft inhale, trying to remember where she hid her sense of humor to preserve it all these months. Laughter became on short supply not long after Fandral's lung got infected. She can't even remember the last time she _did_ laugh.

Sif's so tired of lying down and sitting in this hospital room. She hates it here. It smells funny.

"If your attempting to figure out what direction you'd need to summon Mjolnir from to knock the room flat on top of us, I'm fairly certain that corner would be your best bet." She points at the far west one, with it's wobbling column and overall sick appearance. Thor startles at her voice, eyes snapping down to her face.

"Sif—what? Sif! You're awake, I'd thought that you were still resting." Thor admits, eyes wide with surprise.

Sif shakes her head, rubbing at her eyelids. "Not anymore. You look like you've been there for a while. What are you thinking about?"

Thor's lips pinch together and he shakes his head. "There's no need for me to trouble you with my thoughts."

Sif raises an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly busy." She wants to hear him talk. She hasn't heard his voice in so long and there's something reassuring about it. It wasn't at the Siren's layer. Thor is safe. She desperately needs something _safe._

" _Sif."_ Thor's voice has gained an exasperated tone. "I'm serious."

"As am I." She counters. Thor's mouth thins into a line and Sif sighs. She recognizes that look. For all that Thor wears his heart on sleeve, when he decides not to talk about something there is very few things that can string it out of him. Loki is one. Sif knows of almost none others. The lip thinning is usually when his stubbornness settles in and no other words will be said.

Sif pinches the bridge of her nose, drawing her patience in. They sit in silence for a long few minutes before Sif looks over at the crown prince. His face has settled into that distant expression again. If she had to guess over his thoughts, she'd probably say Loki. (Brain death. _Brain death.)_

She doesn't want to just sit in silence.

She can't stand the silence anymore.

"What happened? After you left? No one has told me much of anything." Sif says, swiping a stray piece of dark hair away from her face. Her throat still feels raw—will it ever stop?—and she can't get much else beyond weird sort of rasps to escape. Thor's expression flickers, a weighted exhaustion settling into his face even as he moves to grab some water and offer it out to her.

The liquid is almost bitterly cold, but Sif enjoys every drop of it.

"My brother's suspicions on Prince Tjan proved correct." Thor admits at last.

 _Prince Tjan?_ Who— _Oh._ Him. In the midst of everything else, between all of this mess, she'd forgotten all about him. The dead eyes of Captain Yan look back up at her in a memory, and her teeth set. Did someone clean up their bodies? Sif can't remember what Vanaheim does to their dead for the life of her right now. Midgard buries them, Asgard releases their ashes to the stars, Muspelheim burns them, Nidavellir...gah, she can't remember. It's dwarfs. Maybe...it doesn't matter.

What matters is that Captain Yan and all but two of Prince Tjan's guard were killed in a skirmish.

They assumed the Weeping Siren.

Were they wrong?

"How so?" Sif murmurs, holding Thor's heavy stare for a moment longer.

Thor sighs deeply, rubbing at his forehead with one hand. "It's a long tale. Not one I feel all to keen on talking over at the moment...but I…" another sigh, and then, "it's probably best that you know it before the trial."

The trial. The only thing anyone ever wants to discuss anymore is the trial. It's driving her insane. She doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't want to _think_ about it.

"Contrary to what I was presenting, I, too, had my doubts about our cousin." Thor admits, shifting. He seems unable to sit still, legs jittery and hands flexing in and out. "There was just something _off_ about him and the others, as I'm sure you noticed."

"I had." Sif confirmed. She thinks back to those nights in the taverns—a lifetime ago—and faintly recalls the haunted eyes and sickly pallor of their skin. "They seemed possessed."

Thor huffs with agreement. "They were."

Sif's eyes go wide and she leans forward, mouth parting. No sound comes out for a long few seconds before, " _What?"_

"The Weeping Siren was...I'm not sure what exactly happened, but Prince Tjan is not an idiot. He and his guard had success in locating the Weeping Siren long before we ever arrived to help. From what my father managed to extract from him, Prince Tjan took a group of forty men into the Blodig Skog one night and they caught the woman. She...resisted. You must know by now that the term "siren" wasn't added because she wailed."

No.

It was because anything she said was a curse. A command, and not one they could say no to.

"She sung to them." Thor's eyes grow distant, as if recalling a memory. "Those who resisted her power were slaughtered and everyone else is what remained of the guard when we arrived."

"But—" Sif stops, lips pressing together. "The reports said that they were attacked with _weaponry._ Prince Tjan and the others _killed_ —"

"—everyone who wouldn't succumb to the phantom's voice. Yes." The crown prince's voice is soft. "But that isn't even half of what happened. The Siren began to use them to scout out the village. Six children were taken in the few months Prince Tjan was there alone because the Siren was _using_ him. My brother, I suspect, could feel the sedir enveloping them better than we could, which is why he was so reluctant."

"I thought it was residue from the Blodig Skog." Sif admits, a knot of discomfort growing in her stomach. The night they were taken is seared into her memory like it was branded, and she doesn't know if she can ever get it to go away. She remembers the panic that washed through her, Hogun being dragged into the dark and the Weeping Siren laughing.

_Come and catch me._

Then Loki catching the Weeping Siren in a headlock and her nasal voice hissing out, _the sedir wielder. I_ told _Prince Tjan to stop bringing them in here._

Sif hadn't thought about that line for months. She'd almost forgotten about it entirely. It wasn't important, so she hadn't saved the space to remember it. Now it burns. Her hands lift to her mouth to cover it as she makes a little noise.

Thor seems to snap back into the present by it, and his brow furrows. "What?"

"Moth—the creature. She...she'd mentioned something about Tjan before." Sif admits, trying to keep her hands steady. "I thought it was rubbish. And then it hadn't mattered anymore. She mentioned something about Prince Tjan stopping sedir wielders from entering the Blodig Skog, but I hadn't..."

"That _had_ mattered." Thor grumbles. "It always had. That's why I went with him that night. On the hunt. It wasn't because I didn't trust him not to poison us—well, _mostly_ not because I didn't trust him not to poison us, but I'd overheard my cousin and Captain Yan discussing a way to remove Loki."

Her stomach churns. "An assassination? He's _family."_

"No." Thor shakes his head. "Just benching him permanently. All the distinct details are fuzzy now, but I wasn't happy with it. I confronted him in the woods, and he and his guard attacked me."

"But everyone...we saw the bodies. They weren't killed by Mjonlir or another weapon." Sif argues, "He couldn't have attacked you unless...you didn't fight back."

Thor smiles grimly. "I couldn't. The creature found us and bound me by her word. Tjan pierced me with a blade here," his fingers lift up to ghost over his chest. Over his heart. Or near it, anyway. Too close. "And I was too focused on that to do much else. When I awoke, only Prince Tjan and two others lived. The details of what happened to soldiers have yet to be discovered, and I can't remember anything. I took Prince Tjan and the other two as my captives and we wandered in the Blodig Skog for a month before finding Ju again."

Stabbed nearly in the heart and of _course_ he decides that's the perfect time to take captives. He really does think himself indestructible at times. It's familiar, but in a dull, aching way. Sif's jaw shifts. "A _month?"_

"Aye." Thor agrees. "Heimdall returned us to Asgard, and thus began the long interrogation process. Tjan's mind was lost, and the other two died before anything could be strung from them. We'd barely gotten the whole story out before my mother and father demanded three weeks time from the court to search for everyone. We were on our last few days before we found you in the tunnels."

"How?" Sif never thought to question it before, but the sudden appearance of Asgard is bizarre. They didn't know about the tunnels for _nine months._ How could Asgard have found it in less than three weeks?

"The map." Thor shrugs. "My mother's unrivaled persistence. My father's tracking spells? Perhaps the Blodig Skog wanted to let you go. We'll never know. I'm just glad you're here."

"I can't believe that witch nearly _killed_ you." Sif whispers. She lifts her eyes up to his chest, staring at the thick layers of clothing as if she can see the wound beneath them. It's nothing more than a sealed wound now, if that. It takes effort to scar an Aesir, even faintly. She doesn't know if a stab would do it. Maybe repeated stabbing in the same place.

Thor's eyes grow soft and he grabs her hand gently. "I'm fine, Sif. I swear it to you."

Sif's eyes feel oddly wet. She doesn't know why she'd be crying in the first place, so she shakes it off. "I'm sorry we didn't find you." Sif murmurs, "Loki wanted to go, but we stopped him. If we'd been less _stupid_ perhaps this whole thing could have been prevented. But we weren't. We never _trusted_ him."

Thor offers a sad smile. He says nothing in response, but Sif can feel the quiet agreement. Her teeth set and she squeezes her eyes shut. She breathes out steadily, trying to convince herself she knows how. "Thank you for telling me."

The crown prince is quiet a moment. "Tell me what happened on your end. Please."

She shudders. The memories leak at the edge of her mind, threatening to overpower her. She shoves at them, but she can't resist their pull. Thinking back, there's not one distinct moment when she felt like everything took a turn for the worse. There was no great torture session. It was a slow descent into madness.

Sif doesn't know if she'll ever be able to crawl her way out of it.

Her lips part. She doesn't want to do this, but Thor asked for it and it's the least she can do after everything. She doesn't even know what to say. How does one describe the monotony of months of the same thing on end? She has to shove to get anything out of her throat, but she does. Slowly, she begins to speak.

000o000

Loki wakes up. Alive. She doesn't learn this by Eir calmly telling her, but rather waking up to the Snake Prince curled on the chair beside her bed. She nearly jumps, hand straying for a weapon as adrenaline pumps through her.

Is this a dream? What on Helheim is going on?

" _Loki_." She hisses, glancing at the door. How did he get _in_ here, past the guard? Everyone has professed his brain's inactivity for days and now she wakes up and he's _sitting in the chair next to her._ No, she re-evaluates, she's not surprised.

Of course he's here.

Dramatic little snot.

Loki moans softly and lifts his head, staring at her through mess black hair. It's hanging over his face in a way that she's become familiar with the last few months, but she knows is likely a startling change for anyone else. His green eyes are shadowed heavily. He looks awful. Bone jutting out, skin almost white with how pale he is. His hands tremble almost rhythmically, but one is pressed firmly against his heart.

Aetheitin withdrawl.

_Curse the Weeping Siren._

"Loki what are you doing in here?" Sif demands, shoving up onto one elbow. "You need to be laying down. How did you _get_ in here?"

"Walked." Loki mumbles under his breath.

"In _your_ state?" Sif's voice raises, incredulousness bathing it. "You shouldn't even be able to _breathe._ They were saying you were _brain dead."_

Loki looks up, blinks twice with wide eyes. His lips part like he wants to say one thing before he swallows and instead murmurs, "I believe they misdiagnosed, then."

She's going to hit him. She shoves up into a sitting position properly, her teeth set and tight. Norns, how can he make light of this? Thor's been a mess for days—the entire royal family has. And he just wakes up and _walks_ off. Queen Frigga is going to have a heart attack when she sees him missing. Asgard will be thrown into chaos as it's torn apart to find him.

(Somewhere, distantly, she's flattered that he came to _her._ In another part she's so relieved it's knotting in her chest. He's alive. She can watch him now to make sure.)

Sif's hands curl into fists before she reaches forward and wraps her arms around him. Loki immediately sinks into the touch, resting his head against her shoulder and sighing under his breath. "Don't do that again. No more walking." She demands harshly. Softer, "I'm glad you're alright. Why...why did you come to _me?"_

"Was alone." Loki says softly. "I...I couldn't...your room is closest. Fandral's that way," he waves a hand in a generalized motion, "but his parents are there. So are Hogun's, and Volstagg's mother. I didn't want to be alone anymore."

"You're not." Sif promises, running a gentle hand through his hair. It's softer than she remembers it being. Someone must have washed it. "We're okay. I promise."

"My heart hurts." Loki whispers. "I think it's going to explode."

The familiar thrum of worry twisted in panic sparks through her. A swear threatens to pour out of her tongue, but she bites it back. "We'll be fine. I'll call for Eir. You can stay here if you agree to let her check it." Loki nods somewhat distantly, his head heavy against her chest. She can hear his heart if she focuses, the drawn out _thump, thump, thunk_ that sounds off pattern and awful.

How on the Nine did he get _up?_

Sif keeps Loki as still as she can as she twists around and cries for help. (How wonderful this is, to be able to weep for assistance and finally receive it. They're not alone anymore.)

000o000

Loki's living, breathing form sparks and uprising throughout _everywhere._ Anywhere Sif pays attention, she hears someone talking about it. Thor looks more alive the next time she sees him, some of the etches of stress washed away.

Sif could have been content like this, but with her wound mostly healed beyond an awful bruise, her parents sweep her out of the healing rooms, insisting that she stay at home as soon as she can. (Sif thinks that it will be a long time before they let her go with the Einherjar, and part of her is relieved about that.)

Sif stands in front of her childhood home for a long moment, staring up at the golden-tipped roof and the familiar stained glass. It seems so big, suddenly, and she wonders if this what guests feel like when they step onto Asgard. It's so bright. Big. Sif's grown accustomed to the small spaces and dark, blurry colors.

This is so different.

Her mother touches her arm, quiet question on her lips and Sif shakes her head, moving forward. She doesn't really want to talk about this. Talk about anything. She wants to see the children again, make sure they're alright with her own eyes because though she's received reassurances, it's not the same. She wants to see her shield-brothers again. Loki. She doesn't want to be here.

Sif shoves forward. The house, normally so familiar and welcoming with its smells and sights only makes her vaguely sick. Suddenly the healing rooms don't seem so stifling anymore. Sif spends a majority of the day wandering the grounds and the house, trying to familiarize herself with it. She sees her parents watching her with worried eyes, talking quietly among themselves.

Sif barely picks at the dinner—Eir warned strictly against anything heavy as her stomach adjusts—and realizes that the only thing she really wants to eat is bread. Maybe some of the fruit, but she's not picky. Everything tastes much the same: flavorless.

Maybe she lost that in the capture, too.

Sif barely says more than fifteen words throughout the whole meal and her parents have to fill the empty space, but do so with clear reluctance. When the meal is finished, her father herds her upstairs to sleep. Sif realizes that her spear and shield are on her desk and looks back at her father with a sudden urgency.

"Restless, is she here?" Thoughts of her mare had plagued the back of her head for months. She'd no idea what happened to her, and hadn't wanted to ask for fear of learning of her death.

"In the stables." Her father promises, something that's obviously relief at seeing her present something other than apathy. "A few villagers in Ju found the horses with him. When Thor arrived he took them back with him."

She still knows so little about what happened to Thor, despite all that he's said—he said so _little._ No one will talk about this. Just that _stupid_ trial. Sif can't wrap her head around everything that's happened. It still feels like a dream. She wishes that her parents would stop treating her as something breakable. She wants to scream. Yell, kick something. But she can't. They think she's broken.

_She wishes they would listen._

Her teeth set and it's probably this line of thought that makes her do it in the first place. Her father insists on tucking her in (she's of age, not a child, but she doesn't fight it) and Sif twists her foot, waiting. Her father stares at her for a long moment, expression furrowed. "Sif...Sif, what are you doing?"

_They still avoid "daughter"._

Sif's head tilts and she looks at her ankle and then the end of her bed. She remembers that this isn't the cellar and her face heats. She tugs her blanket over her bare ankle and chews at her inner lip. "Sorry." She whispers.

Her father sighs and rests a hand on her hair. His gaze is oddly searching after she struggles to meet it. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He promises. "I just...I don't understand what has happened. Half of what you react to now. I wish I could have stopped this Sif, so you wouldn't have to endure it."

Sif bites at her tongue.

Her father's lips pinch into an unhappy line. "What were you waiting for?"

Sif barrels past her initial instinct not to tell and admits, with reluctance, "Moth—the Weeping Siren would chain us to the beds at night. I was waiting so you would...and then I could…"

Her father's expression flashes with a heat so intense she shrivels from it. He smooths it over when he sees her face and slowly exhales. "Forgive me. You have done nothing wrong."

"I _left."_ Sif counters, her stomach churning. "We left Mother alone because we are ungrateful. She was killing Loki, Father. And we just…" she buries her face beneath her hands. "I'm sickened at how much I'm pulled by this."

"That's alright," her father promises, "you don't need to understand it all at once."

"Yes, I _do!"_ she counters sharply. "I have to know so when I testify at Moth—at the creature's hearing I'm not a bumbling mess!"

"Breathe, Sif." Her father instructs. "Just sleep. I'll stay in here until you do, alright?"

Sif hates how relieved she is by that concept. _Child._ "Papa, it hurts," she whispers, "and I don't know what to do."

"You'll be alright. Just breathe. If it's any consolation, I'm very, very proud of you for leaving." He presses a kiss on her brow and rests a hand on hers. The words settle something, not a lot, but _something._ Her father stays until she's asleep.

Sif wakes up more than six times, brain restless and jerking at night terrors. Her father soothes her to sleep again every time.

000o000

"Something isn't right with her," her mother hisses, and Sif stops. Eavesdropping has never been something she engages in, but that was before and this is now. "She's jumping at everything and she won't settle down."

"They were held captive for nine months," her father counters, ever the mediator. "You can't honestly expect that nothing would have changed. Wife, did you really expect to _see_ our daughter when Prince Thor returned barely alive all those months ago?"

"No. But I—"

"Then accept her as she is right now. Don't expect her to be better in a few minutes, it's not our place to decide how she settles. It's hers." Her father says firmly.

"Aren't you _worried_?"

"Yes. Of course I am," her father promises, "she's...she's not right in the head at the moment. She'll get there."

"The Weeping Siren _stole our child,_ Ahni. Sif didn't come back. This—this _ghost_ did."

Her chest aches in a funny place she thinks is where her heart resides. She stands next to the edge of the hall for a long few moments, unable to catch her breath. Her parent's continue on, their quiet slander something she's not supposed to be listening to. She hadn't been expecting this when she walked past, and now—

"You shouldn't be listening to that." Systra murmurs behind her. Sif jumps, whirling to look back at her older sister with wide eyes. The blonde has a bag swung over one shoulder, dressed in clothing that's far to simple for someone of her status. Sif remembers her mother talking about inviting Systra to come back with them. She hadn't believed they were serious. (Hadn't believed Systra would come.)

"I—" Sif gets out in a harsh whisper. She doesn't know what to say. (She wishes she wasn't being eaten by this apathy. This—this awful thing in her chest that isn't going away.)

Systra makes a clicking noise and sweeps her gaze up and down Sif, eyes tightening at the edges. "Come with me." She commands. A few months ago, Sif would have refused and stormed off, indignant. Now she only feels a heavy apprehension and follows after her older sister. Systra stops first to drop her bag off in her room and then leads Sif out of the house. She sits down on a bench hidden in the small corner of the property and Sif recognizes it from when they were little and closer.

Before Systra left.

Sif takes a hesitant seat beside the elder, clamping her hands together incase they start shaking. She's so fidgety. Sick. She hates all of this. Years of training and all of it was lost by a few mere months in a demon's grasp.

"You look ill." Systra notes out loud.

Sif huffs, rubbing her thumbs over her hands. "A wonder why."

"Yes. I think so." Systra's head tilts, the familiar expression of quiet judgement splitting down her face. Sif's chest tightens, years of honed frustration with it pooling in between the ribs like they're trying to weave between the bones.

"Why are you here?" Sif demands instead, turning her head sharply to stare at the elder. "You and I both know that you had more than enough excuses to stay at the palace."

Systra hums, sitting back. "I was right, you know, dearest sister."

" _What?"_ Sif glances away for a moment, confused. Right about _what?_ There's nothing for her to parade over yet!

"I said that you weren't fit for the Einherjar, and well," Systra gestures vaguely, "look where it got you? Nearly murdered. You nearly killed our _prince._ You honestly expect that I'm going to _pity_ you for being such an idiot? This whole disaster is your own fault, if you'd been less arrogant than—"

Something in Sif shatters. Like a vase being dropped onto solid earth. There's no resisting the broken porcelain as it tumbles around them. The apathy that's been drowning her since they were rescued washes off and Sif draws in her first breath of _life_ since the Weeping Siren took them. She jerks up to her feet and whirls on her sibling.

"Don't you start! Do you really think that I don't _know_ that? That this whole disaster is something that I played a part in!? Do you really think that I'm not doubting _myself?_ Because of how I treated the prince, we nearly died! And now we have to live with that knowledge—knowing what happened and not being able to discuss it because _NO ONE IS LISTENING_!" Sif draws in a haggard breath, trying to calm herself, but can't. She slams a fist into a nearby tree and feels so much relief when it hurts.

There's blood pooling on her fist.

And she can _feel_ it.

Sif's shoulders drop and she inhales deeply, but the release doesn't stop. She doesn't stop _feeling._ Sif turns her head slowly towards Systra, unsure what to do. Her jaw tightens some as she sees a grim sort of satisfaction and... _relief?_ in her sister's face.

Sif's lips part with disbelief and she points an accusing finger out towards her, swearing under her breath. "You said that on purpose. You were _trying_ to get a rise out of me!"

A small smirk tugs on the edge of Systra's lip. She shrugs. "I was. Mother expressed her concern over your...apathy, and I wanted to see the extent I could push before you breathed life again. I succeeded."

Sif punches her arm lightly. " _All-Fathers_ , I hate you." She promises. Systra huffs with amusement, but tilts her head towards her, long hair falling over one shoulder.

"Sister. Sif, if you want to talk, I'd be more than happy to listen." Systra promises. "I know we're not...not close. But I can offer you this much."

000o000

Sif doesn't see the Warriors, Loki or the children until the trial. All of Asgard seems to try and stuff themselves into the throne room to see it up close, likely to get a glimpse of the creature that held their second prince captive for nearly a year.

Sif is shuffled towards the front to be a witness and catches the Warriors eyes with a slight nod. An entire conversation seems to pass between them with the slight gesture. Sif spots Loki standing next to his brother, expression masked. His hair is swept back in the way it was before the Siren took them. He looks better than he did in the healing room.

Still tired. Still sick, but better.

She catches his eye and he gives her a weak smile. His apprehension is obvious. None of them want to be here. Sif takes her place beside the Warriors and does her best to not adjust her clothing for the umpteenth time. The only highlight as Asgard and Vanaheim officials shuffle their way into the room is the children. Sif didn't see them enter, but knows they have when Idrissa's arms wrap around her legs. "Sif!" she declares happily, looking up towards her face.

Sif feels a genuine smile spread up her lips and she leans down to lift the child up into her arms. "Idrissa." She greets and the daughter smiles cheerfully. She looks happy. Sif looks up and sees the other children moving towards them. Not all, but about ten of the nineteen. The others are too young to witness anything.

They all look better.

Happier.

The Weeping Siren...the Weeping Siren did _nothing_ for them. Sif may feel a sickly part of her long to return to the simplicity of their captivity, but this—this makes it all worth it. Idrissa's wide smile and the relief and release Sif feels inside.

 _She_ feels better.

Li's dragging another daughter by the hand as he walks up towards them, a gleaming expression of cheer on his face. He begins to talk rapidly with Hogun and Avil, more _life_ in him than Sif has ever seen. It's relieving. Warm.

"Look—" Idrissa points out into the crowd towards a woman. "Maman came. She was happy to see me again." The daughter rests her head against Sif's shoulder. "The All-Mother was good. She helped us go home." A beat and then a confessed whisper, "I think she's a better maman than Mother ever was."

Sif is quiet a moment, and then admits quietly to the girl, "Me too."

They don't have to sit among the restless crowd for much longer. King Odin and Queen Frigga finally arrive and the sight of them silences everyone. Chained nearly an inch of her life is the Weeping Siren, being guided by at least twelve Einherjar. Sif's stomach clenches as she sees the familiar strands of silver hair fall around the thin face. Thick cuffs are strapped around her wrists, binding her sedir. Her voice will be useless here.

Hogun's arm wraps around her shoulders in reassurance and Fandral grabs for her hand. Sif keeps a firm grip on Idrissa with her other, drawing out a deep breath.

She doesn't miss the subtle power play the King and Queen are doing. Their backs are to the creature. They're declaring her so inferior of a threat that she isn't worth guarding themselves over. Sif thinks about how simply the Queen dealt with the creature and can't say with total honesty that she's surprised at this.

King Odin takes a seat on the throne and Queen Frigga comes to a stop beside their sons.

The curia regis and parliament handle most of the formalities, and the only thing Sif can really get herself to pay attention to is when Hogun's father, Governor Tusin, addresses the Weeping Siren by her name. Her _actual_ name: "Rydat, daughter of Fienda."

The names mean nothing to her, but Loki stiffens slightly at them.

The Weeping Siren's dull eyes lift up, but she seems far to lackadaisical for this.

"Daughter of one of the Blodig Skog's enchanters." Governor Tusin adds. Sif's lips part.

_Oh._

"Your identity was a hard fought battle, but not impossible," Governor Tusin promises, keeping steady eye contact with the creature, "you married a man called Tuss, son of Eart, six centuries ago and together you bore two children together, Yei and Holland. Beyond transactions with the village of Hai-Han every so often, all of you effectively vanished. But you were clearly busy—" _putting it lightly_ "—if it wasn't for what happened to your husband, I'm certain that we'd have almost nothing on you. As it is, your brutal slaughter of him was hardly subtle."

The Weeping Siren's chin lifts slightly, self righteously, but she says nothing.

"Given that he was driven mad by slow exposure to the Blodig Skog, I suppose one could argue it was self defense that you killed him in. But your _children..._ you never did find them until it was far too late, did you? Telling them to run, I suspect, when Tuss attempted to kill all of you and they vanished. I have witnessed from my son that their remains lay in the tunnels beneath your home.

"This is hardly an excuse for what you did next, stealing the lost children because you never found your own. There is a reason no one lives inside the Blodig Skog, Rydat. It plays with your mind, takes your sanity and leaves nothing behind. You are a living, breathing example of its effects, and I'm not certain I can even pity you after what you did to my children."

_Is that blood?_

_Yes._

It was never Yei and Holland's. It was _Tuss's._

Sif can't look at the Weeping Siren and attach the name to her. Rydat. _Rydat?_ (Why does this matter? Why _now?)_

Governor Tusin lists a few things, the children she stole and from where, but Sif is already well aware of this. She was when they left for Vanaheim and far more so after she met the stolen children. King Odin takes charge of the trial afterwards, calling forth the witnesses and having them state their evidence. Her stomach is twisting into tight knots thick enough that Sif's certain she'll step forward and throw up, but she doesn't.

She can't remember anything that she said.

She's up one moment, standing in the witness's stand the next.

The words keep coming out of everyone, but Sif can't make much sense of anything. She's trying hard not to, keeping her gaze pinned on a spot on the wall above her parent's heads and trying to breathe. Loki's called forward, the last witness, and she forces herself to pay attention.

Loki inhales raggedly, visibly drawing himself together before taking a hesitant step forward. Sif's grip on Fandral's hand tightens, but she manages to keep her expression schooled to only a faint grimace. The second prince keeps his head up, fists clenched and crosses down the dais of the throne.

"Rydat, you stand before the court accused of crimes that I have been asked to witness." His voice doesn't waver. No hesitation. Only the smooth silk of his silvertongue. "As a victim of your monstrosities, I, Prince Loki Odinson of Asgard am—"

Unlike every other member, the Weeping Siren's head tilts up at Loki's voice. Her sickly eyes lock onto the second prince with a sick sort of longing or hunger before her chapped lips part and—"My darling," she sighs, voice scratched. Sif flinches at it, drawing into Fandral with discomfort. "My dearest darling. I have done nothing wrong, surely you must know this."

Loki's teeth smack together. His expression tightens.

The Einherjar surrounding the woman appear to brace themselves, and she sees several hands go for their weapons. The curia regis is breathless, and those witnessing the trial are straining to look or listen—as if they _want_ to hear this demon's voice. Sif can't stop no matter how hard she tries. Sometimes she wonders if it will ever _leave_ her head.

"My son?" the Weeping Siren whispers. "Please. You are the last to testify against me. You _must_ plead my case. We can go home. We can be happy again...don't you want that?"

Thor's mouth parts and he takes a step forward, clearly prepared for a sharp rebuke, but Queen Frigga lifts up a hand to stop him.

"You weren't given permission to speak." Loki's voice is almost small. It barely penetrates the open air and sounds far more like a question.

Fat, wet tears begin to roll down the woman's cheeks. "I was being a mother. It's my calling. Surely you want to come home? I'll forgive your transgressions, my child. We'll be so happy. I loved making you happy."

"You tortured me for months." Loki rebukes, jaw gaining a tic. "I was never _happy."_

The Weeping Siren's expression twists and she lurches forward. The Einherjar grab at the chains surrounding her, halting her movement, but the damage has already been done. Loki leaps backwards, scrambling away as fast as he can and nearly trips up the stairs. Thor catches the younger in a fluid movement and Loki buries himself into the blond's large frame. They're nearly the same height now, save a few inches on Loki's part, but Thor's cape and arm seem to swallow the raven-haired prince completely.

Sif's heart thumps rapidly in her chest and her head begins to ache from her tightly gritted jaw. _The creature can do nothing. They're in Asgard. They're safe. The creature can do—_

"That's quite enough." Queen Frigga says stiffly. "My son's reaction alone is enough evidence for the case. We have more than enough to condemn her. Lords and ladies, I ask you to consider what justice is to be done. My husband and I have already made our judgement when we found our son and the others in the Blodig Skog."

It's usual for the Queen to take such direct control over political affairs, but given the circumstances, Sif isn't surprised. King Odin's face is so taut Sif thinks if he tries to speak all that's going to come out is an animalistic growl. Perhaps even a raged scream.

The Weeping Siren audibly scoffs.

Queen Frigga's weighted stare shifts to the woman and Sif can see the withering effect, even if it's not directed at her. "Do you have something you wish to add, _creature?"_ the Queen questions.

The Weeping Siren lifts her chin, chains clicking. "I have done no crimes. I kept the children safe. I helped. I was good. _You_ are the ones who stopped them from happiness. I could have kept them all content and loved for the rest of their days, but now _you've_ stopped me. All because your greedy."

Sif's neck muscles strain to stop herself from nodding in agreement. She doesn't agree, it's just what they _did_ for all those long months in the field. (The prison). To disagree meant to invoke the wrath of the creature, and none of them were too keen on it.

Queen Frigga finally seems to reach her breaking point. Her spine goes rigid and she slides down the dais with the grace of a lioness, passing her children without a glance towards them. She grabs the Weeping Siren by the neck, fingers tight against the creature's jaw. "You sorry excuse for a living being."

The Weeping Siren makes a noise of protest, hands shifting, but unable to do much because of the restraints.

"You parade the title of a name you have not earned since you lost your mind. A mother is sacred, and you are wretched. I did not earn the title All-Mother by murder, kidnapping, torture, and fear. You will _never_ understand what you have lost. What you have taken. And you are so far beyond pity I can't say I'm sorry for this. Your soul is going to rot, and _I'm_ going to find great pleasure sending it there."

Sif feels her jaw go lax.

Queen Frigga releases the Weeping Siren's jaw forcefully and shoves her back into the Einherjar, forcing them to grab her before she smashes into her back. The Queen gathers her composure and looks up at parliament. "You are adjourned to discuss your judgement. We'll reconvene in an hour's time."

Turning and wrapping an arm around Thor's shoulder who is still hiding Loki with ease, the All-Mother guides her children from the throne room. Unlike proper protocol would demand, King Odin does not stay behind to dictate the curia regis and parliament's decision. He gets to his feet, grabs Gungnir, and walks after his wife and sons with an even pace.

Sif's hand has gone numb, so Fandral releasing it startles her. "That went well." Fandral mutters under his breath. Sif huffs with agreement, but keeps herself rooted in place. As if her boots have melted into the floor of the throne room. It's what they have to do. What they're supposed to. As witnesses, so they can be interrogated further for missed details.

Sif wants to run.

Far, _far_ away, where the sun is shining and the Weeping Siren isn't less than twenty feet from her.

No one approaches to ask. It's one of the fastest conclusions parliaments's ever arrived to that Sif can recall, and her stomach churns with anticipation and dread. The answer could be almost anything. She doesn't know if she wants to be here for it. Maybe it would be better to have someone tell her when this is finished.

The court re-gathers and King Odin rises to his feet, Gungnir clicking against the ground and silencing everyone. King Odin moves down the dias slowly, coming to a stop in front of the Weeping Siren with an unreadable expression.

"Rydat," his voice is low, he almost spits the word. "Vanaheim and Asgard have come to the conclusion on your fate."

"And, pray tell, _what is it?"_ the Weeping Siren hisses. "I am innocent."

King Odin's jaw gains a visible tic. "Your mind and soul are so far lost now that the greatest mercy we can give you is death, but you did not leave your own scars. Prince Tjan now rests in a medical ward as Vanaheim's sorcerer's attempt to unweave the mess you've made of his mind. You have the cold blood of more than a hundred Vanir dripping from your hands. And you committed violent acts against many youth."

"I did not—" the Weeping Siren starts angrily, breathes out and then, "I was a _good_ mother. I would never—"

"Your execution has been ordered for this evening." King Odin continues on as if she did not speak. "Your sedir will be drawn from your body by my wife. If you survive this, your head will be taken."

Sif's lips part with some surprise at that. For a sedirmaster, she can't think of a more painful way to die. Sedir is blood. To draw it out...she will suffer. (A quiet, sadistic part of Sif who has been pushed too many times over the edge since this began, is pleased. A larger part of her wishes the death could have been cleaner. Faster.)

The Weeping Siren bares her teeth, but King Odin is unfazed.

Sif releases a blown breath, squeezing her eyes shut. This is the last time she sees the demon, standing in front of the court like she's something important. Long silver hair falling down past her waist, thin frame bound up by the chains.

Sif is not upset by this.

000o000

The children are returned to Vanaheim, ancient tradition demanding that children not be present for the sedir purge. None of the rest of them—herself, the Warriors, and Loki—want to see the execution. Maybe they're pathetic for it, but the thought of having to see the Weeping Siren past the courtroom makes her stomach twist with disgusted, panicked swirls. She can't do it. It's some relief to her that the others are much the same. It's not just _her._

She honestly doesn't even know how it happened, but one moment she's panicking and her mother's shuffling her out of the throne room, the next she, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and Loki are in Thor's quarters, sitting down in the balcony adjoining the space. She thinks she has vague memories of Thor insisting they stay here until the deed is done, but she's not sure if that's real or not.

Her lips are pressed hard enough together they hurt. She can't stop digging her nails into her hands. It's _over._ The last ten months of their lives are about to be washed away with the Weeping Siren's blood. The mission that seemed so simple before is completed.

They're safe.

It's fine.

She doesn't think she'll believe it until someone tells her the creature's head has been removed.

"Do you want to know what my favorite part of Asgard is?" Fandral asks, breaking the more than two hour silence between them. Sif lifts her head from the weapon she was attempting to sharpen—the wet stone keeps slipping out of her hands and her fingers are a mess of cuts and dried blood—to stare at the blond.

He's leaning against the palace wall, hands behind his head, and legs outstretched as he calmly looks up towards the setting sun. Beside him is Volstagg, who tilts his head to stare at the blond with one red eyebrow lifted. Hogun, on her left, barely acknowledges that Fandral spoke, far too concentrated on finishing the braided bracelet he's making for his mother.

Loki, seated on the stone railing of the balcony with a book stuffed next to his face, lowers the paper to give Fandral a moment of his attention.

Fandral lifts up a foot and gestures towards his ankles. "Socks. Shoes. Both of them are _marvelous."_

A slight laugh of surprise escapes her and she stares down at her own feet. She doesn't know if she could take off the boots even if the situation was dire. She didn't realize how much she missed shoes until her mother presented her with some this morning when they were to leave for the palace.

Sif sees several nods of serious agreement pass around their small group. A small smile tugs on the corners of her lips.

"I don't miss cutting my toes up on everything," Volstagg admits, "it was incredibly uncomfortable."

"And hitting them against everything." Loki grumbles in agreement, turning a page in his book. "I don't miss that."

Sif releases a breath and nods several times, "Oh, Norns, _yes._ I will never doubt my foot's ability to bruise after this." Dozens of times, at least twice a week. It seems like such a trivial thing against everything else that happened, but it was an annoyance.

"I think my toes will never set right," Hogun grumbles, chancing a glance towards his feet. "Even with Madame Eir's assistance."

"Mm. I'll invest in peg legs for you for your next name day, then," Loki assures.

Hogun rolls his eyes, "I'm to lose my whole _leg_ then?"

"Of course." Loki agrees smoothly, a slight smirk on the edge of his lips. "That's the common medical procedure for broken toes."

Sif shakes her head, tipping her head back and forth fondly, looking towards the weapon in her hands.

"How am I going to wear socks?" Fandral mourns, throwing up his hands, "On my hands!?"

Oh, the _horror._ Sif scrapes the wetstone across the dagger, huffing and trying to hide a smile.

"Those are gloves." Volstagg points out helpfully.

Fandral groans, lightly whacking Volstagg's arm. "Thanks. Now I'll never get to wear my socks."

Silence settles between them. It's not uncomfortable. Not the way it would have been so many months ago, before this all happened. Before the Weeping Siren claimed them. She's more than sure that they would have already been in a fight with Loki if it had been then. Not _now._

The silence stays for almost a full minute before Loki closes the book he was attempting to read and turns so he's facing them better. "Bruised toes aside, do you regret it? Going to Vanaheim?"

The movement in her hands stops as she contemplates. She thinks about the cellar, about the terror that followed them like a shadow, all those bruises and tears, the desperate escape, her parents worried tones and the trial. Focusing on _that_ makes the whole experience a nightmare, but Sif...doesn't. Instead, she looks around the group and she's nothing but relieved. _Grateful,_ almost.

She shakes her head, and looks up so she can hold Loki's eyes. "I don't."

Loki's expression furrows. " _Why?"_

Sif smiles softly, tilting her head at his ignorance. For all his intelligence, he's hopelessly clueless sometimes. She keeps her words even, so he has no reason to doubt her sincerity. "Because if we hadn't been there, we wouldn't _know_ you, Loki. That makes this whole disaster worth it to me."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End. :) Thanks so much for your support throughout this story guys! Horror/mystery was pretty fun. I'll probably give it another try sometime soon, but we'll see. Anyway. Really though, I have deeply appreciated all your support, it's definitely given me the boosts I need to keep going and posting frequently. Love you all, my stars! Hugs! ;)
> 
> Bonus chapter: Frigga's POV, requested by Natt, arriving-yeah, no idea. Sometime soon. Stay tuned. ;D
> 
> Mood song: Come Little Children from "Hocus Pocus", cover by The Hound + The Fox


	9. Bonus--Frigga's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support, guys! I have deeply appreciated it!
> 
> Small confession time, I have never written from Frigga's POV before and discovered that I will probably not be doing it again. XD I'm really unhappy with this chapter, but it's done and that's about all I can do right now. :) 
> 
> Requested by Natt! Thanks for the suggestion, my friend! I really feel like I was able to flush out a lot of stuff and clarify others, so thanks!
> 
> Warnings: See previous chapter warnings. PTSD, slight gore, injuries, physiological manipulation.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing!

* * *

" _I'm so sorry for your loss, my queen…"_

She's staring at the plates again. It's porcelain, _only porcelain,_ but she wants to grab them by their ugly rims and throw them. Shatter them. _Destroy._ They stare back at her, laughing at her misery and singing songs of a haunting praise.

The table is set for four.

The servants have been doing so for centuries. They had no reason not to. (No reason beyond the insistence of everyone that her children are—) They were simply following an ingrained command and she's not going to be cross with them for that. (She's going to _try.)_

Four.

There's only two of them now. It's the first time she's taken dinner in the royal family's private dining room since she returned from Muspelheim. She and Odin have been far to busy for otherwise (ignoring this room valiantly, because there should be two others here, not just them) and they hadn't had a need.

Frigga had made a point to gather her family together every fortnight when circumstances allowed it.

A table set for four.

And her sons are not on the other side. Not sitting at the table, as they should be, Thor rapidly discussing something and ignoring all table manners while Loki stares off into the distance offering a comment here and there, lost in some thought.

_A table set for four._

They never came home. After weeks of waiting, they never came back. Frigga didn't wait with baited breath, but she should have. She should have kept one eye on the Bifrost bridge and the other searching for her sons among the Vanir.

She didn't.

Because she was a fool.

When she left for Muspelheim, Frigga had no idea she would return to this. Odin had been worn—exhausted—and though Frigga frequently dealt with trade beforehand, the Muspelians had asked for Odin directly. Unable to provide, she had gone because their lack of resources wasn't something they could ignore. Frigga had left in a hurry that morning to meet with the regent of the realm. She'd been so pressed for time she hadn't even managed to tell her sons she was leaving.

Nothing haunts her more than that.

She returned to Asgard three weeks later, ten days longer than expected, the trade completed and a wary success pressed between her shoulders.

_The table is set for four._

_Her sons are gone._

_Dead, most insist._ She knows what the curia regis whisper behind her back. Tales of her failure to protect them. How they were eaten alive inside those stupid woods and if the Blodig Skog is feeling mericful, it might spit their bones back up for proper funeral rights.

Four.

" _...they were becoming fine men. You should be proud."_

Frigga's vision fuzzes with a mix of anger and tears. That number burns the inside of her mind. Four. Four. Four. Her sons are gone. They're dead. She failed. She's their mother and she failed. _She didn't even get to say goodbye._

" _I'm sure they fought valiantly to the end."_

Frigga lets out a roar of anger and flips the table onto its side. The glass and porcelain shatter, the sound echoing in her ears and making the inside of her head hurt. It wasn't enough. The sprinkled glass touches the edges of her toes, but Frigga snatches one of the still mostly-intact plates and hurls it across the room. It shatters on the far wall, beneath a tapestry and digs like knives into the woven cloth.

She made that tapestry. It's of their family. Before they were ignorant of what was to come. Before her sons were stolen.

She hates it.

Tears blur everything and Frigga sinks to her knees, wrapping arms around her middle as her insides burn so furiously she thinks she might be sick with grief. Tears spill down her cheeks and the glass in the room vibrates as her sedir reacts with the violent turbulence swirling through her.

Thor and Loki are gone.

Dead.

And she did nothing to stop it.

000o000

"Mother," it's Thor's voice that shakes her from her shock. If he hadn't spoken, Frigga suspects that she would have stood there gaping at his bloody form for another millennia, trying to both drink in the sight of him greedily and valiantly ignore it for the sake of her sanity. Her vision is blurred with tears of relief, but it does little in swaying the protective sting in her stomach.

Frigga lurches on her feet, but can't get herself to move quite right.

Weeks.

Months.

She has waited so long for this moment. To see her son again. To be able to reach out and touch him and his skin to be solid and _real_ beneath her fingers. This doesn't feel like reality, perhaps a conjured dream, but not reality.

He's here.

He's _on the Bifrost bridge._

She exhales stiffly and feels the world come into blaring focus again. The Einherjar are moving rapidly in front of her, trying to both contain the two men—prisoners?—Thor dragged back with him and fret over her son. The blond is ignoring them with ease (does he even know they're _there?)_ and has eyes only for her.

She stares back at him, unwilling to break the precious eye contact.

His gait is unfamiliar, tilted with pain and an obvious limp. His leg is deformed and from a single look she can tell that it has been for quite some time. His hair is long, damp, and dirty. He looks as though he hasn't changed clothing in weeks, let alone bathed.

Thor is gripping the reigns of several horses as he staggers down the Bifrost bridge. His own stallion, Loki's mare, a few others. The latter steeds belong to the Warriors Three and Lady Sif if she's remembering right (where is Loki? The others? Why is it just _Thor?_ Is that _Tjan?)._

Thor.

She snaps into focus, shoving forward and _moving._ She has waited so long for this moment once she realized the possibility of her boys not coming home was mounting. She was breathless for days, a gnawing ache of worry clenching inside and making it hard to breathe, let alone exist.

"Thor!" Frigga exclaims in relief and feels her breath constrict in her chest as Thor's shadowed eyes and heavy face look up at her properly again.

"Mo'ther," Thor's voice is strained. He keeps eye contact with her and tries to hobble another step, but his leg gives and he collapses forward. She catches him with ease, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to keep him upright and feels relief at how _real_ he feels beneath her touch. He's here. He's _truly_ here.

"My son?" she questions, glancing up when she hears Odin approaching behind her. Her husband's expression is twisted. Confused, but angered all the same. He walks towards them briskly and rests a hand on Thor's shoulder. For the first time since the Heimdall's aid came bursting into their private quarters and spouting about Thor's return to Asgard, she feels the shock begin to wear off.

Now a gnawing worry takes its place.

"Thor." Odin says. His voice has the faintest edge of disbelief.

Thor's heavy head lifts from her shoulder to raise in the direction of the other. His eyes widen for the briefest moment as clarity washes through them. "P'pa." He mumbles out and Frigga feels as his legs give entirely. She snatches him under the arms abruptly, trying to keep him from toppling completely.

"Thor," she says frantically. Breathes out, because she can't get her voice any higher. Her son. This is her son and he's back. (Where are the others? Where?) "Thor, look at me."

He doesn't.

He moans softly, hands at last releasing the reigns of the horses and Odin reaches forward to help her take their son's weight. They share a weary look. "Amma," Thor whispers, knees slamming against the Bifrost bridge when he slips. He lands hard on his ankles and Frigga kneels down next to him.

"Thor."

Can she say nothing else?

"Amma, please, I'm so tired." Thor whispers, looking up at her. His red-rimmed eyes only reveal further evidence of this. "Amma, _please,"_ he begs. Frigga grips his shoulders tightly, at a loss for words. She has no idea what to _do_ and she hates this. "'m so tired," Thor repeats, "just a moment to rest. Not slacking off, promise. I'll get back to it. I'll find 'em, Mother. Promise."

"Thor." Her husband's voice, not her own. "Thor, what are you talking about? Where is your brother?"

Thor's head slumps. "Lost him."

Frigga feels herself stiffen, a spool of panic opening in her. _Lost him? Where? How?_ "My son…"

Wet tears slip down Thor's cheeks; they seem to be born of hopelessness. "Was lookin' for a long time. Promise. Please. I didn't mean to...to lose him. Can...can I...I hurt everywhere. My legsa broken, I think."

"Where is your brother?" Odin's voice is harder. There's a frantic note to it, but she shoots him a scathing look all the same resting a hand on Thor's hair. _Now is not the time for an interrogation._ Thor is exhausted. He needs their reassurance, not questions.

Thor releases a gurgling sob. "Gone. Skog of the Blood. I didn't...didn't…"

She tightens her grip in his hair. _Loki._ The burn of anxiety extends from her stomach to her throat, threatening to swallow her voice with it. _Loki._ "Thor," she forces her voice to be steady. It's all she can do to remain calm. "My son, you're exhausted. Surely you're speaking the thoughts of a frantic mind."

_You are making excuses._

_Accept the truth._

Thor shakes his head, making a weak noise. "M'ther. M'ther, 'm not—"

She squeezes her eyes shut, fully aware of the implications of this. Loki, and the Warriors Four, are still in the Blodig Skog. They were separated, and they never came home. ( _Might not come home altogether.)_

"Papa…"

Thor sounds desperate. Whether he's seeking their approval or their comfort is lost to her. She just knows that he's seeking _something_ and it feels impossible to give it. He needs rest. She suspects it's been too long since he gave himself to sleep.

"My son," Frigga cups his cheek, forcing him to look up at her rather than the far off place above her husband's head. "Have you slept?"

"Nnn." Thor moans.

"Thor, you can sleep." Frigga promises, smoothing her thumb across his cheek. "Dearheart, please, I insist. Rest."

Thor shakes his head. He seems nearly delirious. "Gotta find 'em. Brother's...brother might be scared. Promised 'im I'd coma back and I didn'..."

Frigga's heart gives a painful lurch, but she exhales stiffly and draws Thor close to her chest slowly, allowing him to collapses against her as she traces two fingers over his face. When her sedir touches the center of his forehead, he slumps completely in her arms. She hates having to force him to bed, but she knows Thor will push and push until his body gives out completely, and she won't see him dead.

If the need arises, she can deal with his wrath.

Not his death.

They need to get in contact with Eir. Norns curse it, it hadn't even occurred to her until this moment that they _should_ find a healer. Heimdall's discovery had wiped her mind completely clean of anything but seeing her son again and simple things—like getting a healer—had been brushed aside.

It's of no matter. They can still make it to the capital. They aren't far from the palace.

Her teeth set and she looks up, noting the Einherjar around them seem to have settled. The prisoners Thor dragged with him are held by either arm by the guards and their faces are set in scowls. Something is off about their eyes and they reek of unweathered magic. Someone has been practicing powerful—but unstable—craft over these two men.

Heart seizing, Frigga brushes a hand against Thor's forehead to assess his condition and finds faint traces of the same rotten sedir, but no lingering effects. Whatever touched these mens' minds influenced her son's, but no longer.

Good.

(What is it? Does it have Loki? The others? Where did it come from?)

"My king," a Einherjar says softly. It's the captain of Thor's guard. Ullr. It's a relief to see that the stem of loyalty that binds her people together is still here, though the boy rarely lets his guard actually do their job. Loki was always— _is always—_ worse in that regard. Thor would simply slip out of their grasp and vanish for a few hours. Loki would leave an illusion with his and let the guards pretend they were doing something other than protect bent light.

"What? Speak." Odin's voice is hard. She knows he must be as frustrated and confused as she is. For all his wisdom, for all _her_ wisdom, and they lost complete track of their children for _months_ and have only now been returned half the set.

And only by sheer _chance._

(What happened?)

"Should we return to the palace, or shall we summon the healers to meet us here?" Captain Ullr inquires.

Frigga's lips press together tightly and she looks down at her son. She's uncertain as to the extent of the damage, but she'd rather do this out of the public's eye. It may be the Bifrost bridge, but it feels hopelessly exposed and vulnerable. ( _Thor feels unprotected here. One moment from being snatched out of her grip again.)_

She glances at her husband, trusting his judgement. He's already looking at her, though, and his lips press together ever so slightly. Their unease they don't allow to show on their faces. They've been doing this for far too long now.

"The palace." Odin decides at length, "Take these men ahead. We'll arrive shortly."

Captain Ullr nods and shoves Tjan and the other man forward, keeping them moving in a rapid succession as he and his men shuffle around the three of them. When the group is far enough away, Odin squats down beside her. He reaches out a hand to rest on her shoulder and squeezes it gently, sighing under his breath.

Thor remains slumped in her arms, face lax and pressed up against her. "He's burning." Frigga murmurs softly, stroking the side of Thor's cheek again. The fever is obvious, and likely a heavy contribution to his apparent unease in the mind.

"I suspected as much." Odin says. "He was barely standing. You heard him, didn't you? About losing Loki?"

Frigga nods, that uncomfortable knot presenting itself again. "I did." She confirms, shifting somewhat. "We can discuss this later. We need to get him to Eir."

"Aye." Odin agrees and gently pushes her out of the way to gather their son into his arms. Frigga doesn't protest, letting him walk towards where Sleipnir is waiting. She breathes out slowly and turns.

The Bifrost Bridge has never looked so welcoming. Frigga's transversed its light-streamed paths thousands of times over the centuries she's lived in Asgard, but she can scarcely recall a time she's been so relieved to be standing on it. (A time where it meant so much to her.)

She looks to Heimdall, standing at the entrance to the observatory with his hands clasped over Hofund and expression blank as ever. His eyes are trailing her eldest, though, watching as Odin awkwardly mounts his stallion while struggling to keep them both on the horse.

She stands still a moment longer, lets herself revel in this. "Thank you." She says to the gatekeeper. "You may have saved his life."

Heimdall's gaze flickers to her. He dips his head. "I was only doing my sworn duty to the throne, my queen."

"That may be," Frigga agrees, "but we never would have gotten him back if you hadn't."

000o000

"How is he?" Frigga asks, settling down on an empty chair beside Thor's cot and looking up at the head healer. Eir's lips are thinned together tightly as she works, but the aids have stopped running around in such a frantic manner, which Frigga is considering a good thing. But it's always hard to say for certain.

She reaches a hand out to grip Thor's hand beneath the protective dome of healing spells. Eir sighs and waves something away with sedir. "Not good, Your Majesty." She murmurs at last. "His health very poor."

Odin sighs, leaning against Gungnir heavily. He refuses to sit, no matter how much Frigga wordlessly tries to stare him down into doing so. He instead seems to believe that the longer he stands the faster Thor will recover. His frustration seems to have spawned from the fact that he, like her, has very little desire to interpret Eir's riddles.

"Eir." Odin's voice is flat.

The head healer sighs, brushing hair away from her eyes. "His leg is the worst injury. It's not recent. A few weeks, I'd assume, the bone fused together wrong, and it wasn't a clean break. It shattered. Bone fragments are wandering through his calf, it is a miracle the bone fused at _all,_ let alone wrong."

And they'll have to re-break it in order to perform the surgery Thor needs, which could complicate the bone's ability to heal if they slip up.

"On top of that, there's heavy scar tissue here," Eir gestures to an area very near Thor's heart, and Frigga's hand tightens around her son's. "I believe he was stabbed."

Odin's aura darkens, but his face remains impassive as ever when she looks towards it.

"Beyond that is basic malnutrition and dehydration. A few bruises and three broken fingers. The only thing I'm concerned over is his leg." Eir admits with some reluctance. "It's been so long...I don't know what we can do for it. We might need to consider the possibility of amputation."

" _No!"_ Frigga's voice is louder than she meant for it to be. She's on her feet, though she can't recall standing. "You're not taking my son's _leg."_

Eir shuts her eyes and sighs softly. "My queen—"

"He did not journey home, barely alive and coherent, only so we would _take his leg."_ Frigga hisses. Protective rage inside of her insists she shoo the healers out and deal with this herself now, but reason dictates she do nothing, and let the masters do their work.

Odin rests a hand on her shoulder. "Frigga."

" _No."_ She turns to him, snapping a hand out to point at their son accusingly. "You would have them perform this monstrosity—"

"I never _said_ that I would condone it!" Odin starts to counter harshly. "You—"

Eir steps between the two of them, shoving them apart. "I said it was a possibility we should _consider,_ not a given fact of life. Be still. If you will continue to rage like this, you should leave until we're finished."

Frigga exhales sharply, clenching her fists. Her sedir burns on the tips of her fingers, demanding release. She doesn't want to leave. She can't bare to have Thor out of her sight any time soon, knowing that she nearly lost him to Valhalla. Her ignorance nearly got him killed.

(May have gotten Loki killed.)

She clenches her jaw and takes a seat back on the chair again, wordless.

They don't take her son's leg. Not while she's there to watch them. The state is still undetermined, but Frigga refuses to consider the possibility of amputation, even after the surgery. Thor is still yet young. He'll heal. He always heals.

(He came back broken. He came back _fragile._ How can he be healed from that? _)_

000o000

"My queen? Lady Pettidottir wanted to know what you thought about her recent adjustments to the teaching program. She was suggesting that they move the progression of grammatical structures to an earlier age and was waiting for your approval..."

Frigga turns, looking back at the woman. Systra. This all seems trivial, but she doesn't have the luxury of being able to sit here and watch her son breathe while Asgard runs itself. Her husband may have the brunt of the political work, but keeping Asgard happy, healthy, and nurtured is her job. It's never felt like more of a burden.

It always does when Loki or Thor are injured and she's unable to tend to them.

Frigga bites back her initial response which is to admit that she honestly does not _care_ what Lady Pettidottir wants. Her son is dying, and isn't that more important? Let the grammatical structure of the Agsardian native tongue suffer if it means she can remain by her son's bedside.

But that is a mother speaking, and not a queen.

And she is, however frustrating it may be at times, both.

"Tell her that I want to go over the details in person." Frigga says, waving a slight hand. Systra nods, scribbling something down into the tablet that she's holding. "When I read the report the first time, I was uncertain as to why she thought getting started earlier—rather than just improve our teaching style—was important. Tell her to prepare and argument for that."

Systra nods again.

Silence laps between them and it takes Frigga a long second before she sighs and looks up at the girl. "Is there something else you need?"

Systra hesitates and then lowers her tablet. "My lady...my sister was among the group that went to the Blodig Skog. Has she been located?"

Frigga blinks in surprise and then remembers that Systra is, indeed, Sif's older sister. The stark contrast of their appearances often makes her forget the two of them are related. On top of that, the two rarely mention one another from what she understands.

Frigga gives a low shake of her head. "No, I'm afraid. Only my son, Prince Tjan, and a member of his guard were found. The others remain shrouded from us."

_Stolen._

Systra gnaws on her inner lip for a moment before flicking her gaze towards Thor's prone form. He hasn't awoken in the three days he's been here, and though Frigga _knows_ this is normal after his body has seen such trauma, she can't help the panic coiling in her stomach. It insists that Thor will never awaken, or if he does that his leg will have to go.

Eir said that's the only time they can really make any final decisions: When Thor is conscious enough to tell him the state of the injury. They fused the damaged bone—what they could of it—back together, but at what _cost?_

"I see." Systra sounds anything but happy with this. "And what of the Prince?"

Frigga looks up from her son's face to the young woman's curious one. It's only natural that she'd wonder over what circumstances brought her son to such a state. This is Thor. He seems impervious to injury until something lays him flat. But the state of Thor's health is not something she's going to share so Systra will gossip.

Rumors have already sprouted.

When Odin finally gets the council together to discuss the truth, they should dissipate, but for now...it's best to leave things as they are. Carefully, she answers, "He is still sick. Systra, I'm afraid if you came here to gather canards—" the girl's expression flinches "—then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Thor is ill. Leave him to rest in peace."

"I meant no disrespect." Systra is quick to fumble out.

"That may be," Frigga agrees, but narrows her eyes, "but I have no further information to give you. Take what we discussed to Lady Pettidottir. As soon as our schedules can coincide, I'll discuss this grammar problem with her."

Systra nods, lips pursed and cheeks flushed with some embarrassment. She leaves a moment later, and Frigga remains by Thor's bedside and his to-still form.

000o000

There are few men that Frigga knows of who do not cower at the sight of her husband's wrath. Any living soul in their right mind would be pleading for mercy at the clear disapproval and anger sent towards them from Odin's aura, but Tjan does nothing but stare up at the wall. As he has been doing for days.

Eir said, when she was asked to look over the man and his guard member, that their minds are far afield. " _Something has tainted with them. You know how dangerous mind-magic is without the Mind Stone. It's unpredictable, and it's deadly. They sold their souls to someone."_

" _Who, do you know?"_

" _Nay, my queen, I don't recognize the signature. I'm guessing you do not either if you're asking."_

Insane. Unresponsive. A living corpse.

The terms seem far more applicable now that she's standing before them. Odin has taken the seat on the other side of the desk staring at Tjan's face with obvious heat. They have no idea the circumstances of why Thor was holding the two men under arrest, but Heimdall said that he was insistent on it when he staggered into Ju half delirious.

He must have a reason.

She trusts that he does, even if he won't awaken to tell them so.

It had taken days before parliament agreed to an interrogation, but this is nothing unusual. When things seem to matter the most politically, that's when they drag. Odin had insisted on doing the interrogation himself, which likely didn't add to council sallying forth.

"What is your name?" Odin seems to breathe and draws in his magical aura, likely unaware he was letting it dribble out so much until now. The hotter his rage burns, the easier it is for him to lose control.

Frigga tightens her grip around Gungnir and shifts so she's standing directly behind Odin's shoulder, staring at the foreign prince. Her _nephew._ This is hardly the young boy that she remembers running through the halls of the Vanir palace screaming at the top of his lungs with giggles and laughter as he chased his siblings.

It's a ghost.

The man's eyes stare forward. Unchanging.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?" Odin questions. He keeps his tone level, showing more control than she ever could right now. Her mind is buzzing with worry, split between her children. They still have no word of Loki or the Warriors Four.

The eye-witness account of the ambassador from Ju to explain what happened had said that they all entered the Blodig Skog one night after a daughter's recent capture and they did not return. " _Few do, Your Majesty,"_ the man had said, addressing her husband and then turned to her, " _I'm sorry for your loss, my queen."_

They have _nothing_ to search for. The Blodig Skog is massive. It would take years, even with their resources, to tear the entire thing apart in search of the remains of the Warriors Four and her child. It would be easier to unweave the enchantments holding it together.

She wants to be doing _something._ She can't sit here idle while Loki could be dying and Thor is comatose, balancing on the edge of recovery or losing a _limb._

Odin tries a few more questions and receives the same dull stare. His frustration is growing, she can sense it, and she grabs at his shoulder before he can do something drastic. He looks at her, but she gives no indication of what she's about to do. Breathing out slow and evenly, she rests her palms flat on the table and shifts until she's in Tjan's line of site.

"Nephew," she says softly. Imperceptible. "You have been lost for some time now. We need you to talk to us."

Tjan does nothing.

Frigga sighs, squeezing her eyes shut and wishes it wouldn't have to come to this. Mind magic is always testy without the Stone, she _knows_ this, but she's desperate. What other choice _is_ there? Wait around for Tjan to slip further into the madness? They'd have to capture the enchanter to release him unless she takes this risk. She leans across the desk and hears her husband make a noise of protest, perhaps her name, but her fingers have already touched the edge of Tjan's temples and she thrusts herself into his head—

—only to stumble into chaos.

She knows what broken minds look like. This is far beyond that. It's like wading through thick, black tar, but knowing that stuck along side you is sharp needles and shards of ice. It digs into her consciousness and _hurts._

This was a mistake.

But it's too late now.

Wading further, she searches out what she came here for; Tjan's consciousness. He must have tucked it away somewhere ( _or its gone entirely,_ a soft voice in her head whispers, _he could be lost to you and his family now)._ To be this blank and dead, he has to have hidden it. Sheltered it. If anything else, whoever took him would have had to thrust his resistance somewhere.

She dives deeper.

The second layer is simply dark with a few spotted lights she recognizes as memories. They're shrouded, covered in the earlier tar and thick magical locks. The mage's doing, then, to trap him here. Frigga moves further. Oddly enough, the deeper she goes, the more she hears a soft song. It grows stronger and more melodious when she draws closer.

It's hauntingly beautiful, but sad, and Frigga recognizes this almost once.

A siren.

Tjan has been taken by a _siren._ As soon as the thought has occurred, she feels foolish. Loki and Thor were hunting the creature known to them as _the Weeping Siren._ Although legends and titles rarely live up to the creatures themselves, it would appear that this beast does.

Norns curse it, this is far more complicated than she first thought it would be.

Frigga wades further, farther, knowing that she's straining her sedir, but looking for that small glimpse of her nephew inside this mess. It takes longer than she thought it would, but she spots the glimmering edge of where he's been stuffed or hid and grabs at it with the remaining reserves of her sedir and _yanks._

She's shoved out of his head from the force as her sedir overpowers the creature's bonds. The splintering light casts away the darkness, and Frigga comes back to herself with a sharp inhale and a splitting headache. Her legs threaten to give, but Odin's warm hands catch her before she can fall and guide her to the chair he abandoned. She slumps, breathless, and gives him a nod of thanks.

His expression is cold.

Frigga can tell he did not approve of her her reckless actions in the slightest, but she doesn't care. If this can bring even a _small_ part of Tjan to the surface, they'll have a better understanding of what happened. (A better chance at finding Loki.)

Her nephew releases a gasping sputter, shuddering and coughing, leaning over the side of the chair to spit up blood.

Frigga smirks slightly in relief, her throat burning with thirst. Tjan is here. This was well worth it.

Her nephew looks up at them with wide eyes. They lack proper lucidity— _his mind is far afield—_ but there's _something_ there. "Where…" his voice cracks, hoarse and broken. "Uncle? Why...I…" he swallows, "think I've done something terrible."

His gaze fidgets, locking to place for a moment like he's struggling to keep himself present. The mage's magic, Frigga suspects. It will take more than her clumsy attempt to set his mind right. She'd need more time if she were to do it alone, and a guide to keep her from tumbling into the darkness after him.

Odin breathes in deeply, resting his hands on the desk. "Tell me everything."

In a broken, stuttered voice, Tjan begins to speak. Frigga feels herself grow more horrified at every word that drops from his tongue.

000o000

If she'd been expecting something grand and melodramatic, as her sons can be prone to, she would have been radically disappointed by Thor's awakening ten days after his return. She was not, and is only relieved when her son's hand twitches before his face scrunches up and his eyes open half a sliver.

At seeing her leaning over him, his blue eyes fill with the briefest edge of relief.

She shifts further and takes one of his hands in between both of hers. "Thor?"

He sighs heavily and releases a soft groan. In a hoarse, but strong voice, he questions, "It...smells terrible here. Is that _me?"_

Frigga wants to both laugh and slap him over the head for the comment. It's not him. The healers had to clean him for fear of infection. Frigga spent hours de-tangling the mass of knots Thor's hair turned into, but despite her best efforts she had to resort to cutting some places out. He's likely smelling the cream that Eir rubbed all over his leg in an effort to coax the leg back into its proper alignment. Frigga remembers it being potent when she first got a whiff of it.

She's immune now, having spent far too much time in these rooms.

"No, love," she promises and gives his cold hand a quick squeeze. "Just Eir's medicine."

Thor blinks, squinting as if confused before he looks up at her again. "Why would Eir...oh, Norns!" Thor shoots bolt upright, nearly colliding foreheads with her. He throws off the thin blanket covering the lower half of his body and attempts to shove his way up to his feet.

Frigga grabs ahold of her surprise, shoves it down and snatches her son before he can make any progress in his attempt to stand. "Thor!" her voice is sharper than she intended. "Thor, stop it!"

"No, I have...have to—" Thor stumbles out, wiggling in her grip. "I _need_ to find them! _Mother!_ "

Frigga refuses to let him go, and feels strangely _angry._ "Thor, stop. You aren't well. You are _not_ in the position be running around, you stupid child! Can you not _feel_ your injuries?"

Thor stops, looks up at her. "No! I'm fine. I'm…" he looks down towards his feet and his eyes go wide as his face blanches with pain. "Oh."

He starts to slump and Frigga lets her grip lax. She doesn't let go completely, just in case, but she loosens her death grip on him. Thor whips his head towards her, something frantic in his gaze. "Mother—Mother, where is Loki? My friends? Please tell me that you found them. I need...I need them to...to…"

Frigga squeezes her eyes shut and sighs softly. "My son, the location of your brother still evades us."

She hates this.

She has no idea where her child is.

She lost him to the _Blodig Skog._ Any number of things could have claimed his soul and dragged him to Valhalla's doorsteps. Until she and Odin can know where to begin their search—can get the stupid parliament to agree to _let them go personally—_ it will continue this way.

Thor makes a little strangled noise. She thinks it was a "no" that got caught in his throat. Forcing her eyes open and brushing hair away from his forehead, she draws a smile together. "Tell me what happened. The more we know the better."

Thor's story comes out reluctantly, carefully, and she knows that he'd editing parts as he goes along as if she _needs_ the filter. It annoys her, but she says nothing, trying to keep him calm and waving of any healers. She should let them check him, but she doesn't want to know what will happen to his leg. Whether or not they really will be taking it this night. (He doesn't tell her how he broke it.)

Thor finishes with a hastily put together explanation about the decision to travel from Ju to Asgard, and she knows that he's lying. She doesn't push. She wants to, wants to reach into his head and rattle out all the secrets he's keeping until they fall out so she can parse them, but now is not the time for that. Thor is exhausted and confused.

She can't demand more from him. He needs comfort, not her worry. Instead, swallowing her fear in favor of his health, she presses a gentle kiss on his brow and allows Eir to at last come forward.

Thor is allowed to keep his leg. Scarcely. He may never walk properly again.

000o000

The information Tjan can give them is scattered and hardly coherent over weeks of interrogation. The peak of his lucidity was the first few minutes after she tore the mage's magic from his head and he'd bubbled up a confession for trying to murder Thor. (He stabbed him. Almost in the heart and only missed because he had resisted this Weeping Siren's call.) All they have now is scattered details about various children, the Weeping Siren's employment, and the admittance of the mass slaughter of the original squadron he brought with him.

And the possession of the Siren.

Weeks pass with this little information, and Frigga wants to tear out her hair in aggravation. Loki is still out there, still missing, and they can do _nothing_ because Tjan's mind is a mess. An attempt to draw his guard from the retreated shadow was too much of a strain. He'd died shortly afterwards, and Frigga and Odin had returned him to his family with a formal letter of sympathies.

Thor takes his first hobbled steps out of the healing room, but they rely heavily on the cane he's been given and instructed to use at all times until the bone is stronger. It's not healing as it should after spending so much time in the wrong area and the thick lack of resources. She knows her boy is attempting to hide how much pain the wound brings him, but she can see through his facade with ease.

Thor retreats into himself, almost as silent and ethereal—like as Tjan is. It frightens her. He doesn't talk much, opting instead to spend long hours staring over maps of Vanaheim—her husband's map of the Blodig Skog is missing, and none of them know where it went, but Odin suspects Loki and Frigga grudgingly agreed with him—and scribble something down onto parchment.

If it's not that, he takes care of his friends' horses, or sits in Loki's room.

She doesn't know what happened to make him so sullen.

(Dreads to know how Loki will be, now that he's been exposed to the Blodig Skog's power for far longer than her firstborn ever was.)

000o000

Frigga's sister, Freya, arrives on Asgard a few short weeks later to collect her son. Tjan has been moved to the healing rooms, but there's still so many unknowns about his future. Eir believes that, given time, he'll heal, but one wrong move could send him spiraling backwards again. Unless they can kill the Weeping Siren, Tjan's state will remain much the same.

The Weeping Siren made a mess of his mind with her songs.

Freya is none to happy with this.

"Norns curse the wretched thing," Freya seethes, beginning to pace outside of the room Tjan has been assigned. She'd kept considerable control over her emotions inside the space, as Eir had instructed, and only embraced her child and listened to the half-stuttered words he'd said.

Her anger is obvious now, as Frigga had expected it would be. "She nearly _killed_ my child." Freya hisses, clenching her fists. "Tjan has been working there for months. I haven't seen him since before he left. Why hadn't I...why did I _wait?"_

_Why did they all?_

_Why did they put_ children _in charge of dealing with this?_

(They're of age. She knows that. All of them were, but it doesn't ease anything.)

Frigga sighs and shifts, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I know. You did what you thought was right, we all did." She promises. Freya makes a frantic noise in the back of her throat and looks up at her, eyes wide.

"That doesn't mean it was what needed to be _done."_ She rests her head in her hands. "Oh, Frigga. We're now only beginning to understand the extent of what's been done. The Weeping Siren has been a nuisance for close to two centuries, but nothing…nothing like _this._ I should have dealt with it myself. Or _sent_ a more advanced sedir-wielder to deal with it. We have contacts with the Light Elves…"

Frigga's head tips. "I thought...Tjan's report when he requested Asgard's aid said that the creature had only been active for five years in our time."

Freya shakes her head, rubbing at her face. "You know what a distorted concept time is between realms. What is months here could be decades on our home realm and vice versa."

It is a painful truth, no matter how much Frigga has valiantly been trying to ignore it for the last few weeks. They are not immortal, but being so close to the edge of Yggdistrial has given them an extended lifespan. Counting time is close to meaningless between realms.

Freya sighs heavily before looking up at her. "This creature has been stealing children for a lot longer than what my son told you. That doesn't mean she kept them, or...that they survived."

"Oh." Frigga squeezes her eyes shut.

"Tjan's mind is hardly the first one she's messed with." Freya bites on her lower lip, shaking her head. "It was just a nuisance at first. We couldn't even determine it was the same person until recently. Norns, I…" Freya glances back at the door. " _I'm going to kill her._ I don't care who catches her, execution is the only punishment Vanaheim will agree on."

Frigga privately agrees, but says nothing. They don't know the circumstances of this villain. They don't know if death is the best solution. If there's nothing left to _save._ Execution is not the solution to every problem, despite what the court believes.

She squeezes her sister's shoulder and offers a tired smile. Her voice holds more bitterness than she cares to admit. "I'm glad you get to take your child home and make your family whole again."

 _Frigga_ won't.

Because Loki is still missing.

(Are they ever going to _find_ him?)

(What if they find him, and he's not alive? _She doesn't want to send her child off to the stars.)_

000o000

She can't find Thor.

She hates how much of a panic this sends her into, but she'd just been doing rounds to check on him, but _no one has seen him_ and she has no idea where he is. She has no idea if he's alright, if something happened, if he was somehow claimed by the creature again, if, if, if—

_Ifs do nothing._

Gathering her frazzled head together, she determines to first go to Heimdall, and if he hasn't seen her child, then Odin might have some luck with the All-Sight, but she doubts it. (She knows she's being pathetic. Overprotective. Stupid, but she can't _help_ this. Smothering Thor has been the only way she's managed to keep herself sane. (It's been seven months. The search parties High Commander Tyr led returned empty handed. _Again.))_

She's both startled, and relieved when she dismounts from her stallion to see her son in the observatory. Both he and the gatekeeper are sitting on the dais where Hofund is used and their backs are to her. She knows that the gatekeeper is aware of her, but Thor seems oblivious. He's speaking quietly, that stupid cane he hates so much propped up by his feet.

"...and then there was this...thing." Thor lifts his hands as if trying to measure something. "About this big. And…" a heavy sigh, "you know how Tjan...his mind is unsettled, but he'd have these moments of lucidity sometimes. There was...nevermind. Anyway. We almost caught her, you know."

Frigga stills.

She shouldn't be listening. This is _clearly_ only for Heimdall ( _why is her son talking to_ him!? _Why does he not believe he could discuss this with_ her? _She is his mother.),_ but Frigga can't get herself to move.

"The creature had come back with another child. A son. I'd almost managed to stop her, but she...didn't really appreciate that. She broke my leg with sedir. I…" Thor shudders visibly. "I didn't know that sedir could _do_ that. It's stupid, because it's obvious _now,_ but Loki hasn't ever crushed bone like that before. I think I'm...I am pathetic."

He's…

_What?_

(Afraid of sedir. Because of the damage the Weeping Siren did. Perhaps not afraid, but a great deal wearier.)

"You wandered on your own with two mad men for months." Heimdall's voice is cool. "Your leg must have pained you. I don't believe it foolish to have a healthy respect for the craft."

Thor sighs burying his head into his hands. "Norns. I hate this. Can you see them?"

"No."

"Have you ever been able to see them?"

"...No."

"You know what the stupidest part of this is?" Thor glances up at the gatekeeper. "I keep being afraid that the Weeping Siren will kill them, and then I remember that this is the Warriors and my brother. They'll have murdered each other _long_ before any— _ah_!" Thor makes something dangerously close to a squeak as he stumbles up and away from the dais when he spots her in the corner of his eye.

Mjolnir is in one hand despite how clearly he looks like he's going to tip over.

Frigga feels frozen to the spot. As if she's been caught doing something she should not. (She is. She wasn't meant to hear this conversation, but she did. Because she couldn't turn around and _give her son the privacy he wanted._ If he'd wanted her to hear this, he would have talked to her. (Why didn't he want her to hear this? Why did he tell _Heimdall?))_

"Mother." Thor's red-rimmed eyes are wide. His arm drops, battle stance shifting into something calmer. "What are you doing here?"

Frigga untangles her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Forces words out before she tries to swallow them whole again. She doesn't stammer, though it feels like she should have. "I was looking for you, my son."

Thor blinks.

Heimdall twists around to look back at her, an eyebrow lifted just the slightest. She can see how unimpressed he is with her un-announcing her presence, and she feels slightly embarrassed. She should have just said something when she came close enough to the observatory. She hadn't. And now she has this entire mess to deal with.

Thor's lips press together and he glances for the briefest moment at Heimdall.

The look says more than anything he could have spoken would have.

Frigga bites back the sting and wonders when her sons stopped looking to her for support first. Thor clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable and attempting to break the tension before he takes a haggard step forward. He nearly tumbles and grabs at the edge of the dais. Frigga snaps from her thoughts and moves forward, snatching the crutch from where it was balanced and offers it out to her son.

Thor's lips are taut, but he doesn't lift out a hand to take it.

Frigga breathes out slowly and offers a reassuring smile, "My apologies. I hadn't meant to overhear your conversation." Thor blinks again, staring at her with wide eyes. He looks like a spooked cat. Will he _say_ something?

As if overhearing her thoughts, Thor questions softly, "Did you want something?"

Frigga shakes her head, "No. I wasn't sure where you were. I...was worried." The extent of her panic is pathetic, thinking back on it. The Bifrost hadn't been activated, there are no other ways out of Asgard. Where would her son have _gone?_

"Oh."

Silence.

Frigga lifts the crutch out to him again further and Thor hesitantly reaches a hand out to take it from her. "Thor," Frigga keeps her voice steady, her posture calm though she feels like she's _missing_ something. "You know you can talk to me, don't you?"

Thor's eyes flick to the crutch. His lips press together and he gives a wordless nod. "Yes. When you aren't occupied. You're...Loki is a priority. The realm is that, too, I understand. I'm not unwell, Mother. I just," another brief look towards Heimdall, "I'm adjusting."

_And he should talk to her about that._

_(Does he really believe that she wouldn't prioritize him? (Does Loki feel the same?))_

"Of course." Frigga's smile is false. "Forgive me for the interruption. Thor, please let Captain Ullr know where you venture off to next time." She's turned and exited the observatory before he can come up with a response.

000o000

"Odin?"

The ceiling is dark above her head, but thoughts are spinning and she can't keep quiet anymore. She's been lying down for hours quiet and unable to stop the interaction at the observatory from spinning around her head. It keeps going on and on.

_Yes. When you aren't occupied._

_When you aren't occupied._

_When you aren't—_

"Mmm?" her husband makes the noise in the back of his throat. He either wasn't sleeping, too, or wasn't sleeping heavily. She's favoring the former.

Frigga sighs heavily and rolls onto one side so she's facing him. "I talked with Thor today."

Odin shifts to face her better. "And?"

She doesn't know how to phrase this. Where to _begin._ So she doesn't. Shakes her head and falls back against the mattress. "It's nothing."

"I daresay I disagree." Odin murmurs, " _Frigga."_

She sighs and then quietly bemoans. "I'm a terrible mother. I doubt there is another being in this universe that is failing more than I am. Thor didn't even want to _talk_ to me. I rarely see our children. How am I supposed to nurture them if I don't even have my hands anywhere near the potter's clay? Where—?"

000o000

Frigga doesn't hear about Thor re-stepping into the training ring until a week has passed. A _week._ Thor had apparently wrangled _most of the Einherjar_ into keeping it under wraps and, well impressive, it leaves her quietly seething.

She doesn't think she's thinking clearly, but she's not even sure she _cares._

She tears across the training ground before she grabs her son's shoulder and drags him back a few feet. "What on the Nine are you doing here!?" she keeps herself from shouting, but it's hardly control.

Thor looks up at her, soaked in sweat and gripping the sword tight enough his knuckles are white. "I could ask you the same question."

"Are you insane?" Frigga demands. "Eir didn't give you permission to be walking without your crutch. Or a clearance for activity like _this._ You're going to damage yourself. Do you want this to be permanent?"

"Of course not!" Thor retorts. They're gaining an audience. _Good._ Maybe the humiliation of this will keep Thor indoors. "Norns, Mother. Don't _coddle_ me. I'm of age."

A scowl slips over her features. "That means _nothing."_

"I know what I'm doing!"

"Asgard does not need a cripple for its king!"

Thor flinches back from that, eyes going wide. Breath explodes from his chest before his jaw grits and he lifts up a finger towards her face. "I am _not_ a cripple. I'm going to find Loki and bring him back here. You can't stop me."

A laugh threatens to bubble out of her. She stops it on the tip of her tongue so it gurgles out as a derisive snort. A wave of hurt washes over his face. "Your brother has nothing to do with this. How are you going to help him if you can't walk?"

A figure comes to a stop on her left, slightly breathless. It's one of her husband's aids. "My queen—!"

She ignores him. Thor throws his sword on the earth and turns to face her properly. "Look. I'm _standing._ I'm fine. Are you happy? There's nothing wrong with me."

" _Queen Frigga!"_

Frigga shoves a finger against his shoulder and he staggers back a step, a wince whispering on the edges of his face. "Yes." She agrees dryly. "You are perfectly healed, aren't you?"

"My queen—"

Thor's nostrils flare. "I am—"

A hand grabs her shoulder and she whirls on the man, teeth set together. He draws back sharply, eyes wide with something close to fear as he sees her face. " _What!?"_ she should be more patient. Draw herself together and act like she's not burning with frustration. She's spent too many long years on the throne to lose control so easily.

"The—the All-Father," he stammers out and then breathes a little easier and appends so quickly that his words begin to blur together. "the All-Father wanted to speak with you. He says it concerns Prince Loki. Something about the council finally agreed to let you seek him personally. High Commander Tyr's scouts found a magical anomaly in the forest, they think it might be the Weeping Siren."

Both she and Thor still.

Her words come to an all-impressive halt, tangling up in her throat. And then she grabs Thor's hand in anticipation and breathes out steadily, hardly daring to believe this. Doesn't know if she _can._ (It's been so long. So, _so_ long.)

Loki.

Ten months, two weeks, one day.

_Loki._

000o000

Two days later, they arrive on Vanaheim. Preparations—rushed as they were—took far longer than she hoped for. She would have loved to depart the day of, but she's more than Loki's mother. She's the queen. (Sometimes, oh, all so often, the title is a burden.) They needed to alert the Warriors Four's families, gather up the group and meet up with High Commander Tyr's group on Vanaheim.

He'd been scouting for months. The Blodig Skog has been laughing at his attempts, but with the use of the other (and final, Loki has their map— _her foolish boy. What did he plan to_ do _with it?_ ) map, they'd been making slow progress. It had been a boon to her frustrations. At least they were doing _something,_ even if it wasn't personally.

Tyr is almost certain he's found them.

They meet the High Commander in Ju. He's dirty, clearly exhausted and wet from the recent rainstorm, but gives a curt nod as they arrive. "Your Majesties," he says in greeting.

"Commander." Frigga answers in turn. She breathes out slowly, squeezes her eyes shut and reminds herself that this could be another dead end. She doesn't want it to be. (What if they arrive and there's nothing but the bones of her youngest? What if they're all dead? Everyone keeps _insisting—)_

Her hands itch with the urge to _do_ something.

They have three weeks.

Three measly weeks.

They'll find him. All of them. She doesn't know what she'll do if they don't. The High Commander gives a slight dip of his head in Thor's direction—her son had insisted and though Frigga had at first adamantly refused, Odin had argued reason and smuggled him along. She'd been none to amused, but what can she do about it? Grab him by his ear and haul him back to Asgard? (She could, but that won't do anything but leave her eldest cross with her.)

"What do you have?" Odin demands, cutting the formalities to a stop.

The High Commander explains about his findings as Thor leaves with a few men to grab some supplies—she'd shoved him off to it, honestly. She'll explain their plan later, there's no need for Thor to go running off before they're reading to go. Tyr lifts up the map for them to look over and gestures to a large area inside the forest. It's strangely absent of trees. Abnormally so. "My men found this area a few days ago." Tyr explains. "From what they could see it was nothing but a field."

"But?" Odin presses.

"We could sense sedir off of it." Tyr answers, then tips his head, "More so than otherwise. It's thick. We're thinking it's a barrier. It's not much, I know, but it's better than what we had. My men touched it and it _was_ solid."

A barrier, then, indeed. Built to keep things out. (And inside? _Loki?)_ Frigga's lips press together and she narrows her eyes. "Why on the Nine did you look _there?_ It's almost on the edge."

"I know." Tyr grunts in agreement. "But the scouts said they spotted smoke. They didn't see a fire, but it looked like something big had gone up in flames. That doesn't just put itself out in a place that dense with wood."

Hence, the anomaly.

"I'm assuming you have an attack plan." Odin's expression is blank, but she can see the relief in his eyes. It's reflected in the twisting anxiety slowly easing in her chest. This is something. It's more than what they'd had before.

Tyr nods. "Yes. I found a series of tunnels that lead underneath the barrier. They haven't been touched in centuries. We can use them to get inside the field and see what's on the other side."

_Whether or not Loki and the Warriors Four are there._

She and her husband share a look. She resists the urge to grab at his hand in relief because lackadaisical is something she's played for centuries.

( _Loki. Loki. Loki.)_

000o000

Four days after entering the abyss of the tunnels is when they smash into the children. They'd still been a few days out from reaching that field, but Thor had insisted he was hearing something in the tunnels (" _Voices. I heard them. I swear. There's someone else down here.")_ and they'd broken off to check the area.

Frigga would be a liar to admit she was expecting this.

There's more than a dozen of them, scrambling across the cave floor with wide eyes and frantic noises. A young boy at the front is holding a thick scroll of a paper and a lantern, a girl at his left. The collision has several of the Einherjar draw their weapons (she reaches for her short-sword, but stops herself just in time) and paranoia shoot up among the group.

"Help!" the boy at the front screeches, pointing behind them frantically. "She's _coming!"_

Frigga releases her sword and moves towards the boy, kneeling down in front of him. He's making sputtering noises that are supposed to pass for breath. He's panicking. Several of the other children are openly crying. Wait—

Children. In the _middle_ of the Blodig Skog.

_The Weeping Siren._

There's more than a dozen. The Weeping Siren has taken nineteen. Twenty-four, if she's counting her son and the Warriors Four as well. Hope bubbles up in her chest, but she stuffs it down because it will hurt if its wrong.

"Please!" the boy wheezes.

"My child," Frigga says as softly as she can and reaches out to grip his shoulders. He flinches back from her touch, breath constricting in his chest. The instinct seems ingrained in him, and something dark and cold coils inside her stomach. "You're safe. What has you so frightened?"

"She's _coming!"_ the boy screeches, "She kills the others!"

"There's no one to save them!" another daughter wails. "Please! You have to save them!"

_Who? Who is dying?_

More children rouse with these protests and Frigga shares a frantic look with her husband. Odin kneels down next to her as she gently pulls the boy close to her and tries to shush him. "What do you have there?" Odin murmurs under his breath and reaches a hand out to gently take the paper from him.

It reeks of sedir. The frays of the paper are ingrained with golden flecks only those trained in the art would recognize. Her husband must have seen it. Eir and her aids are attempting to deal with the children's frantic crying and Thor is holding two of them close—is that Hogun's younger sister?—as the boy frantically sobs and moans against her.

"She kills them." He keeps repeating. "We're all going to _die."_

They need to move. To save whoever is in danger, but they can't just leave these children spooked and weeping.

Odin stills beside her suddenly. His entire posture seems to just jump into something stiff and she glances at him a word of question on her lips, but his one eye locked with hers. "Wife," he breathes and then lifts the parchment towards her.

Her breath catches.

Oh.

_Oh Norns._

The map. The map of the Blodig Skog. Odin's, because they're borrowing the royal family's second copy and Tjan lost the first. There is no one else it could belong to. No one else that this son could have gotten it from.

 _Loki._ Loki is near here. The words catch up with her and she realizes with a frantic feeling of panic that these children are bemoaning the death of the others. _The Warriors Four and her son._ They're down these tunnels. (She's so close. Oh, Norns, she's—)

Odin shoves to his feet. "Tyr, leave a portion of your men with the children." The High Commander turns to them, his expression clouded with confusion. Odin lifts up the map and Frigga sees Thor's eyes go wide from the corner of her gaze. "This came from my son."

At those words, the Aesir around her scramble. Frigga releases the son so she can gather herself. Within the next minute they're moving forward again. Pointed in the direction that the children came from and pointed them towards with wide eyes.

Frigga draws her sword and listens carefully beyond the tromping of the Aesir's feet for anything else. Some indication that they're getting closer. It takes a bit, but then she can pick out sounds of battle. Clashes of metal scattering, people grunting. She spots the edge of the flame—not flame, she corrects herself, gathering of half a dozen lanterns—before she sees anything else.

Her eyes adjust, and then widen.

The smell of blood hits her first. It's been split, and generously so. Laying near the lanterns is Sif, sprawled out across the ground and panting hard and fast with dulled eyes. Her hands are pressed against her stomach.

Laying against the wall is Fandral, his head bent at a strange angle with blood leaking down the side of his head, from his ear, Norns it's all over the side of his head.

Hogun is crumpled, in a similar state to Sif, but what catches her attention for the longest second is the sight of her son. He's pale and laying face down against the earth. _Loki._

_Loki. Loki. Loki._

He's here.

He's alive (is he?)

A tall, thin woman is swinging a sword towards Volstagg and the glint of metal against the light catches her attention. Beheading. She's preparing for a beheading. _(She kills them.)_ Her hands raise, sedir tipping on the edges of her fingertips as she sees several of Tyr's archers raise their bows.

Thor beats them all. With a cry, he throws Mjolnir forward, lighting dancing off of the hilt and it smashes into the woman from the side. Tossing himself into the room with a loud war cry, Thor summons the hammer back to him, stumbling across the room.

Frigga doesn't hesitate. Tyr and his men throw themselves into the space without restraint, easily filling the area. Frigga follows after beside her husband and lifts her sword, prepared for a fight. She wants to spill blood. (Wants this to be _over_ so she can tend to her youngest. None of this feels real. It's too _convenient. Loki is there. Loki is—)_

The Weeping Siren staggers upwards, letting out a few laughs despite how she's charred and smoking. ( _Good,_ a vindictive part of her snarls, _hopefully Thor thought to do something permanent.)_ Her face is haunted, despite how its hidden behind long silver hair. It lacks youth, drawing her features together in a way that reminds Frigga rather of something pinched or sour.

"You waste your energy, _Asgardians."_ The Weeping Siren snarls. Her voice is hoarser than Frigga had expected. For the title of siren, she'd thought it would be silky and soft, perhaps even youthful. The Weeping Siren sounds like she's been inhaling too much smoke. "This is a family matter, not one of the State."

_Family matter!?_

_This_ is _Frigga's family!_

"You _took_ my brother." Thor growls between his teeth.

 _Stole my child,_ a sour part of her whispers. _Nearly took my son's leg. You have done nothing to warrant mercy._

The Weeping Siren hisses, "He's not your _brother._ Not anymore. He's my son now. And we've been _very_ happy together, have we not, dearest?" She nudges Loki with the side of her boot pointedly, obviously expecting him to say something. Something inside Frigga's chest freezes, her gaze flicking to her son automatically.

Loki flinches away from the creature, clawing at the earth. He says nothing. Frigga wants to tear across the ground and gather him into her arms, but the Weeping Siren is in the way.

" _My dear?_ " The Weeping Siren's voice is hard. Expectant. As if she can simply _will_ Loki into doing what she wants.

"W-we h-have," Loki promises. His voice trembles. It's the first time she's heard it in months and her chest constricts at how much she doesn't recognize it, but how familiar it is all the same. ( _Loki. Loki. Loki.)_ The Siren leans down and caresses a hand through her son's dirty locks. Loki freezes, curling in on himself and lets out a strangled sort of noise in panic.

_No._

_She's not doing this any longer._

_How DARE she touch him!_

Frigga feels her mask slip, something dark and heated slipping across her features. She doesn't care. Let her expression burn something. She's going to tear this creature apart piece by glorious piece. _Loki is terrified of her._ Her son does not scare easily.

" _Don't touch him!"_ Thor commands sharply, shifting some only to be grabbed by High Commander Tyr before he can do something drastic. (Stupid.) His weight is faltering again. He'd "forgotten" the crutch. His recent plan on recovery has been to ignore that he needs it entirely and it's been failing miserably. _Frigga, focus._

" _Shh."_ The Weeping Siren sings, looking towards Frigga's eldest. "You were not meant to survive that attack, but here you are. It's of no matter, we'll just have to do the killing a different way. _Drop your weapons."_ The last three words are sung off-tune, but it doesn't matter. Frigga feels the power of the siren's words, laced thickly with sedir, wash across the space.

Several of the Einherjar are quick to follow the command, but it takes a repeat before the rest and her eldest follow. Frigga shakes her head softly, teeth gritting together. Alright, _enough._ She's seen plenty. The creature has shown off and looks rather proud and smug, but Frigga's not _having this._ The magic was alluring—this creature is powerful—but she and Odin don't move.

The creature begins to sing again and reaches for Loki's head, attempting to put him to sleep—oh, how her son flinches away from the creature like she'll burn him, _what has this demon done to him?—_ and something in Frigga snaps.

It shatters all over the ground and takes any control she had with it. Her hand snaps up before she realizes what she's doing and she wraps sedir around the creature's neck and squeezes. The Weeping Siren's voice dies as she slowly lifts her hands up to claw at the invisible hand strangling her. Frigga is half-tempted to snap her neck here and now, but refrains.

_The Siren won't suffer if Frigga gives her a quick death._

Frigga drags her away from her child with ease and feels the spell wash off of her men as she strides forward and takes the woman by her throat. She feels the eyes on the room settle on her back, but she doesn't care for the attention.

"Touch _my son_ again and I'll do far worse than this." Frigga promises, offering a bitter grin, "You are powerful, and that's not a good thing for you," she leans towards the creature's face. "It means when I drain you dry of every lost drop of sedir you possess, it will _hurt."_

"You—" the Weeping Siren tries to say.

"Oh, _shut up_." Frigga waves her other hand in front of the beast and throws the woman into sleep forcefully. The Weeping Siren immediately slumps and Frigga releases a disgusted breath, turns, thrusting the creature towards the High Commander. "Restrain her, and be assured she won't awaken until I say so."

Tyr nods, glancing briefly in the direction of the injured and Frigga snaps back into focus.

_Loki._

Jerking back to herself, she hears her husband take control of the situation—sees, from the corner of her eye as the family they managed to bring for the Warriors Four immediately move to their children—and shoves her way towards her son.

Frigga lands on her knees beside her youngest, sweeping her gaze up and down him with relief and a quiet assessment as to his health. He's thin. So much thinner than she ever remembers him being. He's never been able to keep weight in the way Thor has, but he's never been so brittle she's been afraid a small breeze would topple him. His bones stretch skin.

His eyes are shadowed heavily, hair a mess, and his face is hollow. But his eyes, so wide with pain and fear land on her. She sees his terror. Horror. The shadows that haunt both his skin and behind the irises. Knows that something awful has happened, even if she has no exact pinpoint as to _what._

(What did that creature _do?)_

"Loki," she breathes, and reaches out to cup his face. A long gash is split over his nose and leading down towards his neck. It's jagged, as if something had jerked the weapon away from the wielder as they tried to slit his throat.

Frigga has a growing suspicion that that's _exactly_ what happened if the state of the Warriors Four are anything to base her observations off of.

"Amma," Loki chokes, rasps, coughing harshly and reaching out for her. She takes his hand immediately, trying to smile with reassurance. It falls flat. His skin feels thin and waxy and it takes her a moment to realize that the ever-present allure of his sedir is depleted. Not missing completely, but so much weaker than she recalls it ever being. So often she feels like a candle compared to a roaring flame when it comes to his reserves and for that lack of the bonfire being there…

_What happened?_

"I'm here now, dearheart," she promises, shoving this observation to the side for later and leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his dirty forehead. Loki flinches beneath her touch and she hesitates, but pulls back and lifts her hand over the wound waving sedir over it to assess them. It's bleeding profusely.

If she does nothing, he'll bleed out.

"Amma," Loki repeats, and makes a strangled gurgling noise. Frigga's eyes widen with alarm before she grabs his shoulders and helps him sit up so he can throw up and spit blood from his throat. (Blood. _Blood.)_ Sobs wrack his body when he's graduated to dry heaves and his to-thin face looks up at her, tears washing the dirt from his pale skin.

Her heart twists in her chest. "My son," she breathes and squeezes his hand harder.

She hears Thor land beside her before she sees him, but her eldest stares at Loki for a long second as if unsure what to do with himself. Loki's eyes lock onto him and he heaves, "brother" in a tone that's thick with relief and oddly pleading.

"Loki." Thor says and moves, hands flailing before they settle on gripping Loki's other hand. "Loki, oh Norns, I'm so sorry. I was looking for you, I promise, but I couldn't...I'm so sorry. You look awful. You're—blood. _Blood._ That's so much blood. Oh, All—Fathers, that's so much blood. _Mother."_

He turns to her at that, eyes wide.

Frigga does what she can, staying focused. Eir kneels down on Frigga's other side, lips pressed together and obviously thinking rapidly.

"Help." Loki breathes, coughing again. " _Help._ Something's...I'm…"

Loki's body trembles and he exhales a final time before he beings to seize and Loki's eyes roll back as he slumps against the ground, frame still twitching. Frigga's breath is snatched by her panic, held for ransom by it, and she can't get anything to come out. _No._

_No. No. No!_

She did come this far only to lose her child to Valhalla when she was _touching_ him. "No!" Frigga gasps. Eir shoves her out of the way and spreads her hands, spreading a wave of sedir across Loki's body. Loki's veins alight almost immediately as it sinks into his frame and Frigga shakes her head. " _No."_

Her hands are trembling.

_Loki._

_No._

_He can't die!_

Odin grabs at her shoulders when she attempts to move, squishing into the sudden mass of Eir's aids, and holds her against his chest. "Frigga." He breathes. "Frigga, stop. Let them work."

 _HOW CAN SHE!? Loki is—_ he was seizing. He wasn't breathing. Something went wrong. Something— _Loki. No. Not her son. Not her child. Not—_

Frigga shakes her head. Buries her head against her husband's chest and begins to sob. " _No."_

000o000

Frigga hardly remembers the journey from the tunnels back to Asgard. Eir managed to keep Loki alive, but he's not breathing on his own. Sedir is keeping up the basic functions of his body because _he can't._ An inquiry of Eir had only left the head healer thinning her lips and shaking her head murmuring, "it's not looking good."

Frigga doesn't want to look towards Loki's lax, almost-dead form, so she throws herself into caring for the children. She learns their names and memorizes their faces, offering condolences and smiles. She keeps a weathered eye on her youngest, but it's meaningless. Loki's condition doesn't change.

The Warriors Four are hardly better off. All of them are starved, thin, and bare bruises and evidence of mistreatment across their bodies. Sif's arm was recently broken, Hogun's leg _is_ broken, Fandral's skull was cracked open and Volstagg took severe burns to his stomach. The latter lad refuses to let the healers put him under a sedative and hardly does anything but stare at his companions.

He's the only one among the older in this group that is still awake.

Haunted, and far off mentally, but awake.

Frigga knows she should race off to Asgard with her family and put the realm at ease, but the thought of having to watch Loki's practically-dead form breathe by only sedir draws a deep dread and discontent inside of her.

(" _I'm suspecting he was given high doses of_ _Aetheitin."_ Eir said, " _His sedir is almost drawn dry and his heart can't cope with the strain of pumping it again. I don't suspect he'll pull through. I'm sorry, Frigga.")_

So she doesn't go with the group. She instructs Odin to tell her of any updates and puts herself to work by returning the children to their families. She's met with frantic voices and tears of gratitude as she works, but she feels strangely numb. Loki is almost dead. _Should_ be dead. Her family is still not whole. ( _Brain dead,_ her husband's report from this morning had admitted with what was obvious reluctance. _Eir has declared him brain dead and she suspects it is only going to deteriorate from here.)_ All they have is her youngest's breathing corpse.

The Weeping Siren did not leave little damage when she stole the children, and that, unfortunately, was often in the form of deaths. Frigga, with the aid of Freya, tracks down living relatives and gets them all as settled as she can. With nothing else to do, she returns to Asgard; to her family. Her sons.

When she sees them, Thor is at her youngest's bedside, anxiously scribbling down on blank paper as he traces something out. It's been some time since she saw him with a sketchbook and Frigga's gaze softens at the sight. All too often she forgets about this side of the eldest. Thor is so ready to throw himself into battle at a given notice and adores the hunt, it's all too easy to remember that he is a skilled artist.

Loki is laying on the mattress, limbs lax and laid out at his sides, Eir's protective, healing sedir spilled out around him. Frigga recognizes most of the spells and her lips thin with distaste. She sighs heavily and sees Thor stiffen slightly before she walks forward and rests a hand on the blond's hair.

"How do you fair, my son?" she asks quietly.

Thor's hands stop and he glances at her, then his brother, and then her again. "Sif woke up." He blurts. "She was frantic. She thought she was dead. Hogun tried to strangle the aid tasked to him. Fandral screamed and wept for mercy when Eir tried to run a few tests. Volstagg...is still sleeping, but, Mother, I dread to know what state of mind Loki will be in when he awakens."

_When._

_Not if._

Such confidence, even if misplaced. Thor has always been like that. Her heart clenches a little when she realizes she's given up believing Loki will recover.

She sits down on the mattress and frowns. "I don't know. The Weeping Siren did not withhold from leaving scars."

"There's talk that the Warriors are insane," Thor mutters, "I didn't think so. I don't _want_ to think so."

Frigga's lips press together and she shifts to grip Thor's hand, "You have a good heart, my son," she promises. "However Loki returns to us, we will deal with it. He will be made hale and whole again."

And Frigga will be here to see it, because she's not going to leave her boys again. However much she may dread the unknowns of the future, leaving them to face it on their own will not help.

000o000

Frigga hears about Loki's escape from the healing quarters, rather than discover or see it for herself. "Hearing" might be too vague of a term, however. One of Eir's aids bursts into she and Odin's bedroom, blabbering out something about death, awakening, and Loki. It had been plenty of motivation for the two of them to get up.

She meets Eir in Loki's bedchamber. Her youngest is laid out on the mattress, alive and blessedly _awake._ She stops at the doorway, suddenly overcome with emotion strong enough to drive her to her knees. Her fingers grip the doorframe, eyes refusing to move from Loki's pale form.

He's propped up against pillows, a glass of something—it's not clear, so it can't be water, a tonic of some kind, she suspects—in his hands. It's not even half empty yet, which means Eir must have given it to him not a minute past. One of his hands is rubbing at his chest dully and though the movement is sluggish, it's _there._

_He's alive._

_Brain activity._

_He's alive._

Sif is sitting on the edge of the bed, the girl's dark hair pulled up into a messy bun. Frigga has no idea what she's doing here, or even how she _got here_. She was in the healing halls a few hours ago. It doesn't matter.

"Loki." Her voice whispered. Eir is fluttering around the bed, handing a clipboard to one of her aids. Frigga takes a step forward, exhaling stiffly. She swallows, but feels her face trembling with relieved tears. "Loki."

Her son looks up at her, his beautiful green eyes settling on her face. His expression softens, his stance slumping. His lips part like he wants to say something, but can't get the word out. He says nothing and Frigga sees Sif turn to look back at her, but she hardly gives the girl a second thought. Moving to her youngest, Frigga quickly crosses the distance them and envelopes him in a hug.

Loki tenses up in her arms, breath catching in his chest. Frigga's brow furrows some, but Loki rests his head against her shoulder a moment later, exhaling. Shaking off the observation, Frigga smiles softly and clenches her boy close before pressing a kiss on the crown of his head.

"Oh, my child," she whispers, drawing back and resting her hands on his shoulders. Odin shifts to lay his hand on top of hers and Loki's gaze lifts up to both of them, eyes wide. He seems hopelessly confused, and Frigga's heart clenches in her chest. What has that creature _done_ to him?

Loki visibly swallows before attempting to form a smile. It's sloppy and falls flat of being sincere. "Father," he looks to her after and gives a slight dip of his head, biting sharply on his lower lip. Frigga's lips turn down as she recognizes that he's avoiding the word "mother". Strange. For what purpose? (She's heard, in brief, the mental trauma Eir has attributed to the survivors, but she'd _hoped…)_

"My prince," Eir says pointedly. Loki glances up at her. His eyes are wide. He looks down at the glass before looking up at her again. "You need to drink that. It will help with the pain."

Pain?

What pain?

Frigga glances towards Odin for answers, but he doesn't seem to have any more ideas than she does. Breathing out slowly through her nose, Frigga releases her son's shoulders and Loki slowly lifts the glass up to his mouth and tips it back. A shudder washes through his frame and he nearly spits the substance back up, but keeps it down.

Eir nods approvingly in the corner of Frigga's gaze, murmuring something to one of her three aids in the room. At the face Loki makes, Sif snorts quietly and jabs one of his bare feet with her finger. Frigga's brow furrows as she sees what a mess his feet are. It hadn't even occurred to her to check there when she did her brief analysis in that cave, but they're torn and bloody. Scabs have formed, but it's obvious that they were, at one point, nearly cut up to bone.

"Is it that good?" Sif questions dryly.

Loki makes a face at her, seeming more relaxed with the woman than Frigga has ever seen. Typically, they're at each other's throats; especially since the hair incident a few decades ago. Frigga would go so far to say that they're...comfortable. The word sounds off.

"Would you like to try some?" Loki counters, lifting the glass towards the shield-maiden.

Sif lifts up her hands, shaking her head. "No."

"Oh, but it—" Loki coughs sharply, wincing, and lifts a hand up to his mouth. When he pulls it away, his fingers are stained red. Frigga glances towards the head healer in concern, but the woman is already moving forward.

Eir lifts a hand out to grab Loki's hand and stare at the blood. "Ah. You're coughing up sedir."

Indeed. The blood is thicker than normal, and clumping into grains. Sedir. That can be both a good and bad thing, given the circumstances, it's a mixture of the two. Frigga relaxes an infinitesimal amount, moving forward and grabbing the woman's shoulder and asks quietly, "Eir, would it be possible to get a moment alone with him?"

Eir hums and then looks up at her, then Odin, leaning towards her to answer in an equally soft tone, "Of course. I'll give you ten, but Loki needs to sleep. He _should_ be sleeping in the first place, but the lad refuses to take a sedative. He's very weak; keep him calm. He can't handle the stress of anything more extreme than that." Frigga nods. She has very little intentions to stress him in the first place, but she knows that Eir knows that. It's a gentle reminder to be careful. "And Frigga," Eir's voice drops further, "he's worse than the others. Don't do anything that will set him off."

_He's worse off?_

Eir moves and nudges Sif's shoulder. "Get up. You need to be laying down."

Both youth visibly tighten with discomfort. Sif looks up, "Eir," she starts carefully, ever so carefully, as if afraid of angering her, "please, I'd rather stay here with him."

"No." Eir says briskly. "The two of you will only distract one another. The prince needs rest. You need rest. Come on, girl, let's get you back to the healing wing before your body gives out completely." Sif visibly slumps, letting out a frustrated breath, but nonetheless hobbles up to her feet. She and Loki share a long look that seems to trade a thousand words before the shield-maiden, Eir, and the healer's aids are exiting the room.

The door laps shut behind them, drowning the room in a sudden silence.

Frigga's uncertain what to say. Her mouth has gone dry, leaving a horrible aftertaste. Loki taps his fingers against the glass, looking into the base. Surprisingly enough, it isn't her that finds something to break the silence with first, it's her husband, "My map of the Blodig Skog mysteriously disappeared before you left. Would you know something of this?"

Loki flinches, snapping his head up. "I—" he exhales, "I—yes. Yes. I took it. Before we left. I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to be an annoyance or a disturbance, but I thought that we'd only be gone for a few days, Father, not...not however long it's been instead and...Norns, I don't even know where it is. I thought I gave it to Li, but maybe—"

"Loki." Odin cuts in, shaking his head. "I said that not to criticize."

Loki blinks, his grip on the glass going lax. "What?"

Humor, perhaps, was her husband's intent. It fell flat. Frigga sighs sadly and takes a seat on the edge of the bed beside his feet, trying to remind herself that this is _real._ Loki stares at her with to-wide eyes. Frigga dithers for a moment longer before reaching a hand out to cup around her son's, but stops as Loki flinches back from her. She looks up towards his face, but he's not staring at her, the barest edge of a tic growing in his jaw.

Pulling her hands back and biting back hurt, she tries to smile. "I am glad that you returned to us. I was worried."

"How long were we gone?" Loki questions softly. "It feels like it's been an age."

Frigga sighs and glances towards Odin for a moment. "On Asgard it has been ten, close to eleven, months. On Vanaheim...far longer than that."

Loki doesn't look up from his lap. "Oh."

Frigga rubs her fingers together, trying to draw herself together. To understand what to _do._ She feels utterly helpless and she hates this. She should tread carefully, but she doesn't know _how._ "You seem...well." She tries.

Loki digs his fingers into the glass.

More silence.

"You must have questions." Frigga pushes. Nothing. "Your brother has been worried for you. We all have. Eir was certain you wouldn't pull through, but here you are. We feared the worst after we retrieved you. Your heart…it's a miracle you're here all together, my son—" Loki's breath hitches. She stops, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

What did she say?

_She hadn't meant to cause him pain!_

"My son?" Odin murmurs. "You're pale. Should we retrieve Eir? Your mother can—"

Loki throws the glass against the ground. It smashes into dozens of pieces, the remaining liquid spilling out onto the carpet. Making something close to a screech, he frantically attempts to get up to his feet, grabbing at the bedside table when his broken leg refuses to take weight.

He's standing on the glass.

What—what is going _on?_

"Loki!" she calls sharply, moving to her feet and reaching out to grab him and pull him back to the bed. He's visibly shuddering now, gripping at the wood like it's the only thing keeping him upright. It probably _is._

Odin grabs her arm to stop her, giving a slight shake of his head. She jerks in his grip, pointedly glancing at their son. What is he _doing?_ Loki needs to lay down! His heart nearly _ruptured_ not an hour's past. He needs to be sitting still, doing nothing. His very _life_ could depend on this!

"Stop it." Loki breathes, his back to them. "Please."

"Stop what?" Odin questions evenly. Frigga can't get her tongue to work.

"I can't...can't…" Loki's head dips for the briefest moment as if he's doing his best to calm himself down before he loses himself to his panic. Frigga's heart twists in her chest. Their son looks back at them, green eyes slightly glazed. "Is this real?"

Frigga's head tips. "Yes. Yes, Loki, this is real."

"I don't think so." Loki shakes his head. "I thought that the first time. The drugs Mother gives to keep us awake make us imagine this up," he gestures vaguely, "hallucinations. Dream-walking. I'm so tired. I can't do this anymore. Stop calling me son."

_Hallucinations? What is he going on about?_

Frigga digs her nails into her palms. "Loki...I didn't give you any drugs."

"Not _you,"_ Loki bites on the tip of his finger. " _Mother._ I know she's around here," he drops his voice to a whisper, "she's very angry with me."

"Loki, the Weeping Siren is of no threat to you." Frigga says firmly. "You're on Asgard. You're safe. You haven't been given any drugs. You're awake. This is real."

Loki sighs, releasing the bedside table and nearly topples to his knees. Odin catches him before Frigga can, slowly helping their youngest back to the bed. "Sleep," Odin instructs. "This will still be real when you wake up."

Loki shakes his head. "It's always gone in the morning."

000o000

"I don't even know what set him off," Frigga explains in frustration to Eir two days later, "one moment he was fine, the next he threw the glass and was ranting like a madman about being asleep. And drugs. He won't let me touch him. He won't talk about anything. He hasn't said a word since he woke up."

That was days ago. He hasn't slept since. Only stared at the wall blankly, as if life has simply been drained from him.

Eir sighs and sprinkles a bit of herbs into the water she's mixing. "I can only tell you the physical evidence of what the Weeping Siren has done." She says quietly, "I know that the others are a mess in their heads. The creature kept them captive and forced them to call her mother for months, Frigga. Not weeks. Not days. Close to a year. Be patient with him. I suspect this is only the first of many instances to follow."

Frigga leans back further into the chair and folds her arms across her chest, thinking. "Thor wants to see him. I don't know if I should let him yet. Neither one of them is the same person who left Asgard a year ago. It could make things worse."

Eir raises an eyebrow, looking back at her. "No. They're not. Keeping them apart isn't going to help anyone. If someone can get Loki to talk, it will be Thor."

 _Why can't it be_ her? _Why is she so useless!?_

Frigga bites at her lower lip with her teeth for a brief moment. Switching the topics entirely, she fumbles out, "My husband has begun the investigation into the creature's past. My sister is helping, they don't have much, but we at least have a name now."

"Hmm?"

"Rydat." Frigga answers. She rubs at her forehead, trying to push back the headache. "I wish I had more answers. I want to know what happened to the youth while they were in the woman's captivity, but no one is talking."

"No," Eir corrects distractedly. "You want Loki to talk. The others have spoken."

Frigga tenses and then sighs heavily, realizing she's lost this battle. "Yes. I'll find Thor."

000o000

Loki gasps in a near panting rhythm nearly three days later, eyes wide washed out and lips parted. "I can't." He whispers. Frigga stays herself and resists the urge to run her hand through his hair, remembering his reactions from earlier. The flinches, winces, strangled gasps. It stings, somewhere quiet and soft, that Loki won't let her touch him. Not Thor, not Odin. _Her._

"It's alright Loki." She promises, picking at her palm anxiously. "Just try, no judgement if you fail. You need to sleep my child."

He hasn't since that first night. That was five days ago.

"You didn't...didn't…haven't..." Loki's arm twitches and Frigga's teeth snap together in heated anger. It may have been distorted mess, but she understands his meaning almost immediately. Frigga had talked with the Warriors Three privately, trying to gauge some sort of idea of what she needs to be prepared for. Frigga's hatred for the Weeping Siren, if possible, has only grown.

"No one is going to inject you tonight, Loki." Frigga says firmly. "You can go to bed."

The Weeping Siren is going to _die._ It will be something drawn out. Painful.

_Aetheitin. Every night. Who—?_

"I can't." Loki shakes his head with disagreement and Thor makes a little noise, shifting like he wants to move, but she pins him in place with a single look. The two of them have been spending long hours together, but Thor, and everyone else, has failed to get Loki to sleep.

Loki draws in a stiff breath before fresh tears spill down his face and he digs his fingers into his palms. "No. Please. _Please,_ it will hurt so much more tomorrow if we don't do it today."

"Loki." Thor tries to get out, but his voice sounds like it's being squeezed between two hands.

"Please." Loki looks up at her, and Frigga realizes he's lost to some sort of wild fantasy. There will be no reasoning from this. She has to get a needle—a needle, something that Loki would avoid unless strictly necessary because he _hates_ them and this creature—from Eir or nothing is going to get better.

The Weeping Siren has conditioned him like a dull hunting dog.

Frigga bites back a wave of anger that threatens to tear itself from her and breathes out slowly. Carefully. She turns, fingers lifting for teleportation. She has to grab a needle from Eir, filled with only water, and inject it into her son's arm before things get any better. Loki's still a sobbing mess, but he seems to calm at the sting somewhat. Frigga's teeth are pressed together so tightly her jaw is beginning to hurt. Loki's eyes still lack lucidity and Thor clambers up onto the mattress beside him, trying to ground him in the present.

Loki isn't coming.

He keeps rubbing at his forearms, whispering something under his breath. She's not close enough to overhear it, but Thor's expression is growing more distressed. He looks up at her helplessly, and Frigga wrestles with herself for a long few moments.

She doesn't want to do this.

Oh, Norns, she doesn't want to, but Loki isn't going to sleep if she doesn't. He _needs_ to rest. Drugs will make it worse and inducing him to sleep with sedir isn't a panic she wants to force her son into. Hogun already caused a scene in the healing rooms when one of the aid's attempted to help him.

Frigga summons a loose pair of shackles and straps one end around her son's ankle and the other cuff to the bed frame. Loki stills immediately, short gasping breaths stopping as he exhales deeply. Frigga's ire only grows at this and she glances towards his face. It's white, but the creases of anxiety have eased somewhat. His eyes are closed.

He looks exhausted.

_She had to chain her son to the bed._

(Do the others have this? They are so tempered by the beast's actions that they can't find peace without them?)

Thor looks flabbergasted and confused, eyes lifting up towards her as he shifts slightly to move closer to Loki. "Mo—" Thor stops, and rephrases, "—what are you doing? How is this supposed to help anything?"

"He needs it." Frigga manages to get out. Rage is burning the tip of her tongue. She wants to scream. Yell. _Destroy._ She needs to leave before she does something drastic and spooks either one of them. It won't help the circumstances in the slightest. "Keep watch over your brother, Thor." She demands and flicks the key to the shackle towards him.

Thor catches it without seeming to think on the action and tries to catch her gaze frantically. "Wait. Where are you going?" Thor sounds almost desperate.

She longs to stay and offer them both comfort, but she won't be of much use with her temper raging like this. She wants to break something. Wants to _kill_ something. "To calm myself," she answers as evenly as she can. It still sounds like a drawn out growl. "I'll return shorty."

Loki's head lifts sluggishly up towards her over his shoulder, eyes red rimmed and confused.

Frigga digs her nails into her palms.

She hates all of this.

000o000

Her fury releases itself in the training room, which is where Odin finds her some hours later. She's drenched in sweat and bleeding from multiple lacerations, but she doesn't care. The simulations she's using are all artificial, but they still dig deep. Odin leans against the doorway, staring at her for a long moment.

Frigga switches off the program and throws her sword against the ground, turning to face him. " _What?"_

"It's the middle of the night."

"Fine observation." Frigga seethes, wiping blood from her face.

Odin waits patiently, watching as she goes through the motions of cleaning her weapon, wiping the worst of the blood from her clothing and skin, turning off lights. Jaw tight, she turns to her husband. Odin breathes out quietly. "What are you doing here, Frigga?"

"The Weeping Siren." She answers flatly. "I had to inject Loki with water because he wouldn't sleep." Odin's brow furrows. "He refused to calm down. Thor's with him, but I was only causing him more distress _because I am his mother._ Mother. I would not give up this calling for anything in the world, but I can't believe how much this...this _siren_ corrupted it."

"You're angry." Odin notes.

" _Of course I'm angry! What am I—!?"_

"At yourself."

Frigga stops. Snaps her jaw shut and looks away from him. They know each other too well now. Have born too much as one for her to be able to hide anything from him. Odin sighs, "Frigga, you did and are doing all that you can. That's all that can be asked of you."

"My son is afraid of me." Frigga snaps. "I'm terrified of losing both of them again. I don't know what to do. I keep believing I'll wake up one morning and they won't be there anymore. I don't know what to _do._ I'm failing them."

"No." Odin shakes his head. "You'll learn. We both will. You've done all you can for now. You can rest."

"Can I?" Frigga counters, looking at him. "How do I bring them _back?_ How do I bring life back into a ghost?"

"You don't. That's up to them. We can't change who they are or how what they did to survive their circumstances. You are the All-Mother, my queen. You bare the title of mother for all beyond our children. Loki will get better. Thor will heal. Our family will be whole again, you'll see to it."

Frigga glances away, her eyes wet. "I don't know how."

"Neither do I." Odin admits quietly, "But I have faith that you will. Come, we can check on our sons and then you will go to bed."

"We both will." She argues. "You have been awake for longer than I. It is the middle of the night. Court business can wait a moment longer."

Odin dips his head, a faint smile touching the edges of his lips. "Fair enough."

When they glance inside of Loki's quarters, their sons are asleep, breathing deeply and evenly. Both are at peace for the first time she can remember since before Vanaheim. The worry creases are gone, the exhaustion is still on their faces, but it isn't as heavy.

Odin rests a hand on her shoulder, and she lifts her hand to grip at his, relieved.

Breathing.

Loki's resting his head on top of Thor's shoulder, Thor's arm loosely wrapped around his shoulders. As it has been since they were children and shared a mattress, the blankets have been stolen largely by Thor, leaving only a sparse remnants for Loki's feet, as if in an afterthought.

"They are fine." Odin promises, his tone barely audible. "Our sons are well, wife."

Are they?

Frigga intertwines their fingers and murmurs softly, "They will be."

000o000

Things don't exactly look up from there, but Frigga counts her successes where she can and leaves the failures for later. Loki walks (staggers, Eir made progress with his leg, but Loki really should be laying down still) the halls like a ghost, Thor still avidly ignores the need for his crutch and she sees the two of them sticking to each other far more than they ever were before.

Sif and the Warriors Three are taken home for the brief respite until Rydat's trial, and Frigga allows herself to _breathe._

Everything is almost over. Tomorrow the creature will receive her final judgement and then she can focus her attention solely on helping her sons and Asgard, ignoring the nagging worry in the back of her mind insisting that her children are at constant threat of being stolen again.

It's the night before the trial when Frigga finds the two of them in the training barracks, lazily smacking practice swords together. She has no idea whose decision this was—Thor, her mind immediately assures—but neither one of them are exactly in the position to be doing this.

She says nothing.

If it helps, it helps.

Frigga moves towards them, both stilling as they spot her before drawing back sharply and standing side-by-side. She doesn't miss how Thor leans heavily into his sword, but she only eyes it and smiles. "My so—" she stumbles over herself, remembering Loki won't let her call him that yet with panicking, "—children."

That didn't seem much better.

Frigga bites sharply on her tongue and inwardly releases a breath of annoyance. "What are you doing out here?"

Thor glances at the younger before giving an awkward smile. "Loki—" the raven-haired shoots him a scowl and Thor reiterates, "— _I_ was going stir crazy. We weren't doing anything intense. You needn't be cross with us. I wouldn't hit Loki hard enough to cause permanent damage."

A lifted eyebrow from the younger, but he says nothing. Last year, he would have. So much has changed, but remained the same. He's still pale, sickly, and won't sleep, rubbing at his forearms dully and staring up at the ceiling. Frigga's tried to coax him, but the only way his mind has been appeased so far has been to inject him with the needle and the chains.

(She hates this.)

After learning about what the Weeping Siren did from the others—Loki has still said nothing— she's not in a hurry to push him outside of where he's comfortable.

"I'm not angry." She promises, resting a hand on her eldest's shoulder. "But it's getting late. You should both retire for the night. I foresee tomorrow being exhausting."

Both of them visibly darken at the reminder, Loki wrapping his arms around his chest. Thor's expression sets in a scowl, but they say nothing. Frigga bites on her inner lip and looks up for a moment, surprised to see both their guard where they're supposed to be. She would have thought they'd have shaken the men off by now.

Frigga squeezes her son's shoulder and offers Loki a reassuring smile when he glances towards her face.

It doesn't help. She hadn't expected it would.

000o000

The trial passes about as well as can be expected. Rydat remains quiet and impassive through the testimonies until her son steps forward. She would have preferred he spoke first, but the rules of the court dictate that those of higher rank go last.

Loki stumbles through a few words before the creature seems to breathe and life once again awakens in her skeletal frame. She's done very little since she was thrown into the cells. Hasn't even spoken.

Frigga barely remembers the exchange. Remembers that Rydat attempted to jump on her son and the feeling of the creature's throat beneath her fingers and the heated words slipping off her tongue, "You parade the title of a name you have not earned since you lost your mind. A mother is sacred, and you are wretched. I did not earn the title All-Mother by murder, kidnapping, torture, and fear. You will _never_ understand what you have lost. What you have taken. And you are so far beyond pity I can't say I'm sorry for this. Your soul is going to rot, and _I'm_ going to find great pleasure sending it there."

There's nothing left to save in this creature.

The best they can hope for is that the afterlife will give her clarity that can't be achieved here.

(She tried to harm her son, _again,_ and Frigga is more than happy to see the beast killed.)

000o000

"Oh, Norns," Loki's voice is shaky, he's hardly breathing from where he collapsed into the chair of the small waiting room Frigga shoved him into as they wait for Parliament. His hands are shaking and he's collapsed forward, head between his knees.

Thor, sitting on his brother's side, attempts to rest a hand of reassurance on Loki's shoulder, but the younger violently draws back.

"Sorry." Thor whispers, pulling his hand away.

Loki shakes his head, gripping at his hair. He doesn't look up at them. "It's not you." He promises. "I am pathetic."

"You are not." Frigga counters sharply, "You were kept and tortured for months. What else were you _expecting,_ my son?"

Loki glances up at her. Odin is standing on her other side, face blank, but hands tight with anger. He looks like he's trying to decide whether or not to storm out of the room and strangle the Weeping Siren himself. She and her husband have already cast their vote into parliament. It's up to them to decide what the creature's fate is, but she's not too worried as to what the final judgement will be.

Loki breathes out raggedly. "I can hear her in my head, still." He whispers. "She never shuts up."

Frigga breathes out at this admission and takes a seat on the other side of her youngest. "Loki." She says quietly.

"There was this one time that Fandral was sick—that was so long ago—and she gave me this...this drug to keep me awake. I hallucinated vividly for hours on end to stop me from sleeping, and I kept thinking of _this._ When the Aetheitin got worse, I began to lose reality again. I think...am I still _there?"_ He looks up at her desperately.

Frigga's heart twists and she clenches her fists to stop herself from running a hand through his hair in reassurance. "My son," she says carefully, "this is very real."

"It doesn't...doesn't feel real." Loki whispers.

Thor casts a helpless glance at her. Odin sighs heavily before moving and leaning down so he's eye level with Loki. "My child, do you believe that I would ever lie to you?" Loki holds his gaze for a moment before giving a small shake of his head. Odin reaches a hand out and clasps one of Loki's. "Then take my word for this. _You are awake. This is not a dream."_

"How do I know that!?" Loki asks desperately, his eyes are wild and desperate. "Am I dead?"

Frigga shakes her head, wrapping a hand around his shoulders. Loki doesn't settle into her touch, but he doesn't draw away. "Child," she breathes out slowly, tries to come up with something to say that will help. "This is real."

"She tried to take me again." Loki murmurs, "Will you find me faster next time, Mother?"

Relief and sorrow crash into her at once. He called her mother. He _chose_ to call her this, but how could he think that they'd _ever_ let him be stolen again? Frigga presses a kiss to the crown of his head. "Oh, Loki," she breathes, "there will not _be_ a next time."

000o000

The trial passes. The verdict is as Frigga expected: death. Having been given permission from Freya to take the execution into her own hands, the hours pass far to quickly before she's standing in the throne room. Thor is standing beside the throne, where her husband is seated, but her youngest is elsewhere. (With the Warriors Four, all of them having refused to be a witness.)

Frigga stands before the creature, watching her with steady eyes as the court rambles on about the sentence and so forth.

Finally, Frigga steps forward and Rydat's eyes settle on her for a long moment. Neither of them says anything for a time before, "I'll kill you." Rydat hisses, "You stole _everything_ from me."

"You have had one foot in your grave since you touched my sons." Frigga promises, teeth set. Rydat looks up at her with a sneer, eyes hollow. The court shifts uncomfortably, but Frigga holds her ground. Battles wills with the creature.

Frigga remembers Thor hobbling into Asgard, half dead and unable to walk. (Can barely do so now.) Remembers Loki's inability to sleep without the injection. Knows that this creature nearly stole her sons. Mocked the title of mother, a precious gift.

Rydat's chin lifts. "You're too _gentle._ You won't touch me."

Oh, _ha._

Frigga smirks, a bitter, twisted thing. She lifts her hand up and feels the sedir surge into her fingertips, the power build on her hands. Her husband gives a finalizing nod, something nasty in his eye. She knows it's directed to this—this _thing_ and welcomes it.

She lifts her hand up.

She touches the Weeping Siren's head. It's not until her fingers make contact with her forehead that the creature seems to realize that Frigga wasn't jesting. Frigga breathes out slowly before grabbing at the warm drops of sedir and _tugs._

The Weeping Siren screams— _howls, pleads—_ until she doesn't. There's enough of her body left for someone to give a proper funeral to, but an executioner was unnecessary.

000o000

Frigga steps into the royal family's private dining room several weeks later. The area is shaded in the evening light, but she still recognizes the familiar blue walls with ease. The table is set, and her husband is already seated. So are her sons.

Thor is talking rapidly to Loki about something or another and Loki is nodding every now and then, offering a comment if it's necessary. The sight is familiar enough that it makes her stagger in the doorway somewhat. She breathes out slowly, looking between her family.

Her _entire_ family.

"Mother?" Loki glances towards her, the conversation between her children lapsing to a halt. "Are you well?"

Frigga offers him a reassuring smile and steps into the space. "Yes." She answers honestly, taking her usual seat beside her husband who offers her a nod of acknowledgement. Her smile stretches to genuine as she drinks in this sight. How _right_ it is.

Her family came home.

They're here. _Everything will be fine._

Frigga meets her children's eyes and breathes in how wonderful this is to see them both here. Talking. Living. She waves a slight hand and then says, "Everything is fine. Hand me the salt, will you?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following. Your enthusiasm for this story has been so wonderful to see.
> 
> You're all awesome! Love you all! Hugs! Until the next story. ;)
> 
> -GalaxyThreads


	10. ANNOUNCEMENT

Hello, my stars! I just wanted to let you know that a sequel "The Blodig Skog" is now available for this work if you're interested. 


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